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Sex in Black and White

By: neviimkethuvim



Do you know what it's like to be twenty-seven in Eugene, Oregon? How boring it can be at times, when the most entertaining part of your month is the weekend spent at Klamath Falls Airport, drilling with the 173rd Fighter Wing? How boring it can be, especially when the M.B.A. you're working on at the University of Oregon essentially restricts you to your apartment -- or the library -- almost ALL the time?

Seriously. I can only write so many papers on how Foucault applies to modern business practice. Eventually, I'm going to snap and go all "Discipline and Punish" on a professor. When they take me away to the cuckoo's nest and ask me why I did it, I'll tell them it was my rendition of post-modern thought.

And yes, I know that "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" is set in Oregon. That is perhaps the point of the reference, ja?

But that's not the point of this story. Oh, no. The point of this story is what happens when that boredom gets just a LITTLE bit unchecked.

You see, I have this group of friends with whom I hang out a little and drink a lot. They're a bit of a motley crew -- professionals in various fields, other Oregon grad students, even a couple of veterans. There's two of them with whom I have grown particularly close -- Kelvin, who sort of surpasses description -- although, the best description I've ever heard of him was a self-professed one -- a "gay Conan O'Brien", because, really, that's -- physically, at least -- a damn accurate description.

Also, his name isn't REALLY Kelvin. His parents named him Calvin McNeese, but last spring, after seeing the new Star Trek movie and deciding that Chris Hemsworth -- James T. Kirk's dead daddy -- was particularly hot, Calvin started spelling his name Kelvin -- the way the name of the ship on which dead Kirk daddy died was spelled. But whatever. I still pronounce it Calvin, and I give him merciless shit for having had a stuffed tiger when he was a kid.

And then there's Angela. Oh, Angela. She and Kelvin are best friends. They knew each other long before I moved to Eugene and (I suspect) will know each other long after I'm gone.

Now, the thing you have to understand about Angela Richardson is that after God had so graciously bestowed her upon this planet, He threw the mold onto the floor and smashed it into powder with a divine sledgehammer. Angela is unquestionably one-of-a-kind. She's five-four, dirty blond hair, incredibly bright green eyes, a REALLY cute face -- think Rachel McAdams -- fantastic boobs, an ass you could bounce a quarter off of, and a body that is not too skinny, not too big -- as Goldilocks might've said, she's JUST RIGHT.

Here's what you have to understand about my relationship with Angela, though -- it had never gone anywhere beyond friendship, and up until the episode you're about to hear about, I never figured it would. Kelvin had repeatedly encouraged me to try to do something with her, but you know, I'm just another Air National Guard schmuck working toward an M.B.A., and she's God's gift to men. Not a chance in hell.

So now that you have that background information...

Let's go back, to January of this year. Right after MLK Day. I had been back in Eugene for a couple of weeks, after spending the holidays with my family in Cedar Rapids, when I got a call out of the blue one day from Kelvin, asking me if I could join him and Angela for lunch. I figured, what the hell, why not. Got nothing better to do than write another paper on Foucault and how his philosophies should be applied to AIG.

Actually, wait a second. That's not a half bad idea. Discipline and punish those bastards?

But I digress.

Anyway, just after one o'clock, I met Kelvin and Angela over at Oregon Electric Station. The crab and artichoke dip there? Killer. Steaks too. But again, I digress.

So there we are, indulging in our various liquid lunch habits -- Angela and I both opted for the wondrousness that is New Belgium's Fat Tire lager, while Kelvin decided to do what he ALWAYS does, play RIGHT into the hands of stereotypes the world over, and get himself a Cosmo -- when Kelvin dropped this completely unexpected bomb on me and Angela.

"I've got this friend down in San Francisco named Tyler," Kelvin told us. "He's a photographer, a really good one, and he's had a couple of shows at galleries in Castro. Well, a dozen or so. And he's a REAL photographer, too -- he still uses black and white film in an old Pentax ZX-7 -"

And really, at that point, Kelvin had me intrigued. There are a number of things with regard to which I call myself a purist (but other people just call me old), and the two primary among those are vinyl LPs and 35mm film cameras. So, as soon as the phrase "Pentax ZX-7" came out of Kelvin's mouth, he basically had me hooked on whatever bill of goods he was about to sell me.

"- and sure, he does a lot of digital work as well -- because these days, if you want film to turn out right, you have to develop it yourself, and that's just a stone cold bitch -- but he is SO good. And there's this one project that he's been wanting to do for a really, REALLY long time."

Oh please oh please oh please tell me he wants to photograph classic muscle cars, I thought, completely irrationally. My pride and joy is my 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 302. It was a complete wreck when I bought it back in 1998 -- my junior year of high school -- but over the next five years, I had turned it into any gearhead's dream. And I had always wanted to have it professionally photographed, but it just seemed like such an unnecessary expense -- even after more than eleven years of driving her around the United States.

"What's the project about?" Angela asked, interrupting me from my Detroit reverie.

Kelvin grinned, and leaned in close to the both of us. Speaking in a conspiratorial tone, he quietly said, "The human body."

Ummm... what? The human body? I mean, sure, Angela's got a great body. She'd be a GREAT subject for something like that. But me? Sure, it's kept in fairly decent condition by being in the National Guard, but at that time of year, it was white enough to blind people, not to mention which I was sporting three weeks worth of post-drill beard growth. I wasn't exactly a great subject -- and I said as much to Kelvin.

"Oh, honey, you do NOT give yourself enough credit," he replied. "Yeah, maybe you could work on your skin tone a little bit, but you've got a FANTASTIC body."

I looked over at Angela, hoping for a little support, but all she did was grin and say, "I'm with Kelvin on this one."

Well, crap. Two against one, that's not v-

WAIT JUST A GODDAMN SECOND.

Did Angela Richardson just say that she thought I had a fantastic body?

While inwardly doing backflips, I did my best to maintain my outward calm. As I always do in such situations, I raised my right eyebrow, a la Leonard Nimoy, and fixed my gaze upon Kelvin. "Tell me more."

**********

As it turned out, this project that Kelvin's friend Tyler wanted to do did indeed involve the human body. In fact, it involved the entire human body. Naked. Nude.

I was well into my fifth Fat Tire before I finally agreed to do it. I mean, that should tell you something about how I feel about being naked around other people -- despite the fact that Angela thought I had a good body, despite the fact that I would GET TO SEE HER NAKED -- I still had to get drunk enough that by the time I finally stumbled back to my apartment, the only thing I had to say to my paper was, "Fuck Michel Foucault," and then dropkick "Discipline and Punish" off my balcony.

Somehow, the damn thing wound up in my mailbox.

Anyway, a week and a half later, on Saturday morning, I showed up at this photography studio nice and early. Apparently, Tyler had rented the entire place out for the day, which made sense -- after all, if he was going to be photographing people in the buff, he certainly didn't want to have other people around.

Of course, my personal sense of punctuality plus six years in the Air Force and the National Guard have sort of hammered into me this desperate need to be early to whatever I'm doing, and so there I was, at 8:45, sitting outside the studio, drinking my coffee, Mustang running to keep me warm, waiting for SOMEBODY to show up and let me in.

That was when I heard a tap on the passenger window, and looked over to see Angela smiling in at me. And being the chivalrous man (or total horndog, whichever you prefer) that I am, I of course reached over, unlocked the door, and opened it for her so that she could join me in the relative warmth of the forty year old pony car. "Good morning, Jared!" she exclaimed cheerfully as she got into the car.

I just shook my head in amazement. "How the hell are you so cheerful?" I asked her. "It's 8:45 AM on a Saturday, and it's cold as balls out there."

She shrugged. "First of all, it's another day that I'm alive," she replied. "That's always something to be cheerful about. Secondly, I get to have naked time today."

HEL-lo.

"Lots and lots of naked time."

Please, tell me more about this naked time.

"With you."

At which point, I did not pull an Andy Samberg and jizz in my pants, but you better believe I came damn close.

"And third," she continued, "I don't know how COLD balls are... in fact, I'm guessing your crotch is probably one of the warmest parts of your body."

You have no idea.

"But, if you're unsure of whether your balls are cold or warm, I'm sure I could check for you."

Breathe, Jared, breathe.

As I struggled to maintain control and not end up needing a change of shorts before the day had even begun, I set my coffee down on the dashboard and took a deep breath. "That's... quite alright," I managed to say.

Angela laughed at that. "Oh, Jared, you just need to loosen up a little bit. Surely you put something in your coffee to help with that, right?"

And before I could say anything, she had grabbed my coffee and taken a drink. As the taste of the Irish whiskey within the coffee hit her tongue, her eyes went wide, and then she smiled. "Oh, you NAUGHTY boy," she giggled. "Isn't it a little early?"

I sighed. "I'm about to get naked," I replied. "It's not something I'm particularly crazy about. Truthfully, I'm only doing it because you and Kelvin practically begged me."

As I stared out the windshield, I felt her put my coffee cup back in my hand, and then I felt her hand on my arm. "Jared, listen -- it's not something I'm really looking forward to doing either. I'm not a real big fan of being naked myself."

The hell?

I turned to look at her, giving her what I called my patented you crazy look. "Seriously?" I asked her. "You've got an AMAZING body. What do you have to be ashamed of?"

Angela just shrugged and smiled. "Women are our own worst critics," she replied. "You see perfection, I see dimples, cellulite, stretch marks -- it's just the way we are."

I pondered that for a bit, and then nodded. "Fair enough," I replied. "But just remember -- I don't care what you might think of your body, because you've got a fan in me."

Angela's smile turned into a full-blown grin. "Point to you," she said. "Now, I'm hoping that you have a thermos full of that Irish coffee, because I think we're both going to need it."

**********

And THAT is how I ended up in a photography studio in Eugene, Oregon, naked save for a bathrobe, sitting on a director's chair. I had already done a few shots, stripped down as far as my t-shirt and boxer briefs, but the last hour of Angela posing completely nude RIGHT in front of me had left me with an epic erection, and so in order to distract myself, I had focused on Tyler's camera setup a little bit.

Yeah, yeah, blasphemy, looking at the camera instead of the girl, I'm aware. But still, practical considerations aside, Tyler had a rather interesting setup. As I said earlier, he had a Pentax ZX-7, which was loaded with 100 speed Kodak T-MAX black and white film. Because of his slow film speed, he had to have lights EVERYWHERE -- otherwise, nothing would have come out. Kelvin had been running around the studio all morning with a little light meter, adjusting the lights as needed.

Mounted right on top of the Pentax was a little wireless webcam. Everytime he pushed the shutter button on the Pentax, the webcam was activated, and it would take a picture which was automatically transmitted to the laptop set up next to me, giving us a reasonable idea of what each picture was going to look like. Of course, the difference between a two megapixel webcam and a badass SLR camera loaded with the best black and white film available was going to be REMARKABLE, but nonetheless.

And one thing I will definitely say for Tyler -- he knew his shit. Angles, lighting, shadow, you name it, he could do it. And in accordance with what he had promised both Angela and myself, he took each picture in such a fashion that our faces were never fully exposed. Sure, you might get the mouth here, the nose there, an eye, perhaps, but the rest of our faces were always in shadow.

"Alright, Jared, it's your turn," I heard Tyler say, bringing me back to reality.

Angela was in her bathrobe again, and I appeared to be down to half-mast and retreating quickly. That was probably for the best.

"Tell me what you want me to do, boss," I said, trying to instill my voice with as much confidence as I could. And it sounded good when I said it, but my internal monologue was, at this point, just a continuous oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.

"Lose the robe," Tyler replied with a grin. "We'll go from there."

I took a deep breath, and then looked over at Angela. As if reading my mind, she grabbed the Thermos and passed it to me with a smile. I opened it, took a big swig, and then screwed the lid back on. "Alright," I said. "Let's do this before I chicken out."

And with that, I untied the front of my bathrobe and let it fall to the floor. "Very nice," Tyler said, although seemingly only in the same voice with which he might appraise the Golden Gate Bridge as he was preparing to take a picture of it.

However, his was the only professional opinion in the room. A low but appreciative-sounding whistle came from Angela's general direction, and Kelvin just said, "Dayum, boyfriend..."

Which... now seems like as good a time as any to get this out of the way. I'm not gonna lie, I'm pretty proud of my dick. Yeah, I might not like being naked in front of other people, but it's just because I'm not a fan of my body.

Quick description -- when it's hard, it tops out at just over seven inches, at about an inch and a half thick, which, guess what, that's BIG for American men. The people who write erotica wherein ten inch erections are normal have NO IDEA what they're talking about. The AVERAGE American penis is about five and a half inches when erect.

In fact, let me put this in perspective for you. Tommy Gunn, pornstar. His dick is only a hair over seven inches when fully erect, but the man has been in over five hundred pornos. You know why? Because he can get it up, keep it up, and cum on command, not because he has an elephant wang!

Okay, I got sidetracked. I'm sorry. Rant over. That can go in the file with Foucault.

Anyway, when my dick isn't hard, it hangs about half its erect length. And truth be told, I keep the rest of my body in decent fighting trim -- I might not be carrying a Situation-esque six-pack, but I keep trim and well-toned. The Air Force wouldn't have it any other way.

So Tyler had me do a number of poses. Some of them included my dick, some of them didn't. No matter what, he did everything in an artistic, professional fashion, and I'll be damned if I wasn't impressed by the work he was doing.

After about forty minutes, he stopped to reload (and it had to have been the sixtieth time he had done so), and looked at me -- and then looked over at Angela. "I wonder..." he mused.

I looked back at him, then over at Angela, and then back to Tyler. "You wonder what?"

"I'm just thinking, that maybe... a few poses of the two of you together might look really good?"

And at that point, I must have gotten a total deer-in-the-headlights look, because Tyler hastened to reassure me. "No, no, no, don't worry, not like porn or anything -"

although, legally, he could, because the nature of the photos we were taking meant we had to sign affidavits for 18 USC 2257 before we started shooting, and THAT was new and different and something I hope to GOD never sees the light of day -

"- just simple nudes of the two of you together."

I looked over at Angela, and she looked about as unsure as I felt. "Is there any coffee left?" I asked, hopefully.

"Nope," she answered, a rueful smile on her face. "I finished off the last of it fifteen minutes ago."

"Oh, come ON, you two!" Kelvin exclaimed. "You're both hotter than hell, and you know it! Just take the damn pictures and stop being such a couple of pussies!"

Angela and I both turned and looked at him. "I'm sorry," I said, "but which one of us here is NOT bare-ass naked and being photographed?"

"Oh, I wouldn't advise going THERE," I heard Tyler laugh behind me. "You have NO IDEA some of the stuff this guy has done."

No shit. I looked back at Tyler, and then over at Kelvin. "Really?"

He grinned. "What can I say," he said. "I'm an exhibitionist at heart."

Angela laughed and shook her head. "Somehow that does not surprise me." Then, taking a breath, she looked back over at me. "Well, if you're okay with it, I guess I am too."

Okay with it? Is the Pope Polish?

Oh, wait a second. Shit. I REALLY need to update the old aphorisms I learned from my parents.

Is the Pope a former Hitler Youth?

Anyway. "Then I guess we're going to take some naked pictures together!"

We started off with a simple pose. Tyler had me lay on the ground, propped up on one elbow, my back to him. Then he had Angela lay down perpendicular to me, her shoulders resting on my right hip, her right arm draped over my torso. "Tuck your left hand between your thighs," I heard him tell her. "I don't want you to look like you're playing with yourself, but more like you're trying to cover up a little bit."

After Tyler was done photographing us in that pose, he decided to go for something a little more complicated. "Alright, Jared, roll over," he told me. "Stay propped up on an elbow, and bring your legs up almost as if you were in a sitting position."

He turned to Angela. "What I want you to do is lay down, parallel to Jared's torso, so that your right shoulder is resting on his thigh. Then, bring your right leg up, and, Jared -- I want you to lay your head on Angela's right knee, and then reach your hand over and grab her ankle."

So, I did as Jared instructed, and as I looked downward, I realized I had a view right into Angela's slightly opened vagina. Shaved except for a perfect strip of blonde hair, glistening with her juices -- clearly this was turning her on -- and pretty much perfectly shaped -

Whoops. Here we go.

Well, my rapidly expanding penis was hidden for the moment, but as soon as Angela moved, it was going to be quite exposed.

Or perhaps sooner, I realized with horror, as the tip of my erection reached Angela's back. As soon as it touched her, she jumped -- but she didn't move away, didn't scream, none of that. No, instead, she just looked down at me, smiled, and in a low and conspiratorial voice, said, "Oh, my."

Tyler finished taking pictures of that pose far too quickly, and once Angela stood up, my personal results of that pose were clear for the whole world to see. "Alright then," Tyler said, clearly amused. "I think we need to do a pose where Jared has a chance to calm down. So..."

Turning to Kelvin, he said, "I need that stool from the corner, if you could." As Kelvin went to get the stool, he turned back to us. "This is going to be sort of like a stylized crucifix," he said. "Jared, you've really got the easy part of this. What's going to happen is, once that stool gets here -- and here it is."


Sex in Black & White - Story 01



Story 1 -- Scheming 

In shadows shying from the light, I lived a life of black and white. But venture out did I one day,  To chance a world in shades of gray.

Looking back now, I felt good about it, almost smug, especially given all of the things that could have gone wrong. 

He could have been nasty and I likely would have accepted it, but he wasn't. Instead, he was appealing; sweet, even. Too much so at times.

He could have been cruel, which I might have acquiesced to, but he wasn't...at least not for the most part. 

And he could have just dumped me off somewhere afterward, but he hadn't. Instead, he'd driven me to the station where he could have left me straightaway, but he didn't do that either. As if we were acquainted, he walked with me to the barrier and kissed me goodbye; even pointing me to the right platform.

But that was then and now, utterly alone, I waited shivering in the crowd, as alone as the loneliness that brought me to chance all this in the first place. 

I admit to it - about the smugness, that is. I plead guilty. It's only one of an assortment of imperfections that surfaces when I succeed against the odds. And I had pulled it off, after all. I had done this thing, and deserved at least the joy of a borderline rush. Shit, I might even go back to do it again - if he'd have me. 

It was exciting and the self-consciousness I'd almost drowned in three long years ago - the last time I'd fucked a stranger -- wasn't haunting me this time; at least not yet. It felt almost...good.

But whether to see him again was a decision I'd make if he even contacted me, although given the way things ended, it seemed doubtful he would. 

The cold enveloping me made me shiver and I wished I had worn my heavier coat. Donning the lighter jacket, now barely shielding my tired body, had been a decision of style and show, not warmth. The look was smarter and while dressing this morning I'd wanted smart. But that was then too and now things were different and I wanted warm. But it would have to do as I was far from home and simple warmth was merely the fantasy of the moment. To occupy my mind, I browsed the dozen or so beverage options offered at the vending machine, and my thoughts turned to Anya. What would she say? That is, when I eventually got round to admitting all of this to her. 

She'd be pissed at me of course; of that much, I was certain. Frankly, I was pissed at me - not for sneaking off to meet him, but for hiding it from her, especially since it was she who had unwittingly triggered my...experiment. Setting aside the part about not telling her, which seemed a betrayal somehow, I still felt all right about the rest - about the sex, I mean.

The Anya thing was, well, something I'd think about tomorrow. For now, I just wanted time to myself, to wallow in the moment's euphoria. And past experience with euphoria had taught me something. It didn't last. That before long, my mind would begin nagging at me, inducing me to make sense out of something so senseless.

My eyes idly wandered the beverage machine. Orange juice appealed to me; all that tingling liquid capturing Florida and its warm sunshine. But sunshine and warmth had no place in this freezing January night. Fuck, if anything, there were too many choices and I'd had it with choices today. Plain water was healthy; so "blah", though. And then there was the worst of it, Diet Coke. So totally chemical! 

Of course that's the button I pushed and I smirked at the thought of considering a different swill. It was all I drank. Why I contemplated any of the others was beyond me; a need to show objectivity, maybe.

Taking a swig and wincing as the tingling bubbles scratched the back of my throat, I thought about how the addictive beverage acted as a tether, drawing me home after having spent the day drifting through an alien world of my own creation. I needed something normal, something completely "me". 

After what I had done this afternoon, after sucking strange cock, imbibing something familiar - something that might disguise his taste - was what I wanted. And though he'd tasted sweet, his sperm somehow contained a depressing, lingering quality that was already getting on my nerves.

More than anything, I needed to think, and the nice thing about having to journey home is it allows an opportunity to process things, healing frazzled nerve-endings for those of us plagued with overly fixated thought and right now I had to decipher all this, to decide whether it had been complete or only partial lunacy. 

The frightening thought suddenly struck me that had he turned out to be an axe-murderer I wouldn't even be here, but would simply have vanished, body parts buried in his back garden and since I hadn't told a soul I was meeting him, I'd just be another Irish girl who vanished, an occurrence not as uncommon as one might think in a city the size of London. 

Fortunately, I hadn't disappeared, so my bigger concern right now was figuring out a way to tell Anya. She would instantly recognize the danger I had placed myself in; screwing a stranger, hazarding venereal disease and God knew what else. And something just as frightening; she'd frown at the thought I had given my body away for free. Just like last time. Sure, she would never come right out and say "you might have gotten yourself hurt, Taryn," to shield me from having to admit the obvious. She's protective that way and hates telling me her fears, for fear I too might fear. 

I thought back to three years ago. That time, the sex had come to nothing, excepting a "minor" pregnancy scare and well, some soreness, but since then, I had led a simple life of work, study and an odd sort of friendship, one which brought me to, of all things, the world of a pricey escort.

We'd grown incredibly close, so close it almost seemed she'd been there with me through this afternoon, anxiously observing as I took him in my mouth that first time, watching as he positioned himself between quivering legs and frowning in agitation as he made that first aggressive lunge.

"To look at you Taryn, no one would ever guess how much you love danger," Anya had observed one day not long ago. She was right; risk taunted me and I habitually nibbled at it, only half hoping it wasn't linked to a trap. It was something she lived; something I merely played with. 

But knowing all that hadn't mattered. I needed sex again; to see if it could make me feel any more alive than it did that last time. 

After the thought had struck me that I actually had the nerve to go through with it, I became my stock obsessive self, browsing cocks on the internet as one might fondle forbidden fruit at some erotic farmers' market. And like a modern-day Goldilocks, surfing past hundreds of dicks, I'd found this one "too big," that one "too small" -- but eventually I had settled on one that seemed "just right."

Now, as I waited anxiously to return home and a full hour after the abrupt conclusion of our Biblical "joining", there was self-satisfaction; a touch of vanity, even. In an odd sort of way, screwing a stranger had done it for me. It was excitement with zero commitment. So simple, I thought, smiling. 

But there was still that other matter. Minor in the grand scheme of things, I couldn't help but be disappointed with myself over the sheer rudeness of my exit from his house. It was only moments after he'd...finished. And though I was sure my abrupt departure had pissed him off, I wasn't convinced it bothered me in the same way the Anya thing did. My treatment of her was appalling and I was determined to tell her every detail as soon as I got home. But thankfully, that was still an hour away, enough time to give it some additional thought.

I recollected how I'd run away from him; how I had panicked in those final moments scurrying about his place, snapping up my clothes like some school girl. My exit was unquestionably bad-mannered...but tough shit. 

My issue with Anya was more complicated. To begin, had she known what I was up to, she would have said "don't." That's exactly why I kept it from her. It was something I needed to do and didn't want to have to cope with her brand of in your face common sense. It was strictly a "beg forgiveness afterward," kind of exploit, I concluded soberly. 

Yet despite the not-so-comfortable prospect of having to face her, I desperately needed Anya's take on it and wanted to call her but thought better of it; that I had to tell her in person. I should have brought her in on it from the beginning. We talked five times a day, after all. But I'd been guarded and never once let on. 

I had never kept anything from her and now that I had actually done it, the need to confess to her was eating at me.

Pacing the platform, my mind drifted back to the past couple of weeks. There were times I thought she might have picked up on something but sadly, I hadn't uttered a single word which might have betrayed my secret. I desperately wanted her to somehow realize what I was about to do, but how could she have? It was my own fault, for being too much of a coward to say "Anya, I'm staging a fuck with this guy I don't know. Tell me what you think." 

Of course, part and parcel of having a call girl as your best friend means the subject of sex arises pretty regularly. I loved it when that happened because she gave me ideas I hadn't thought of before and I could ask her questions. She was usually candid with me, clipping my investigatory wings only when it threatened to breach the privacy of her clients. One day, out of nowhere, she flippantly turned to my persistent erotic longings by dictating a mock schedule of raunchy tasks. 

"Find a guy Taryn, anyone you like and give him a hand job. Do this by, say...March. We have to get you used to coping with semen, which you'll need to learn to play with afterward."

"Yuck!"

"And don't give me that grossed-out look of yours," she added sternly.

"Play with? I hate that idea, Anya," I countered, knowing I was acting like a child. "Why can't I wipe it up with a tissue or something?"

"Because," she answered matter-of-factly, "men love cum-play, and you want to please him, don't you?"

"Not really," I said. "I don't. I won't do it!" 

"Well, consider it anyway," she reprised firmly. "You'll come up with something. You have to get used to sperm or you'll never realize all those shocking fantasies of yours. Anyway, are you listening to me?" I nodded sheepishly.

"By May," she continued, "do a blow job, and don't you dare swallow - not the first time! And I don't care how much you like him!" Her tone was grim. I didn't argue. 

It got worse. "Have vaginal sex by July," she went on, "and anal by August. That's your schedule. Oh, and pick somebody whose prick isn't huge please, just in case you actually reach the anal stage in all this."

Her clinical prescription prompted hysterical laughter on her part and restrained laughter on mine. To her, it was harmless banter. To me, it struck a chord and though I laughed along with her, deep down, I took the whole thing seriously.

That I would inform her every step of the way went without saying. That's where I got into trouble, as I never told her anything and assumed she assumed I took her "suggestions" as little more than a joke, - if she thought of it at all after that night, which I doubted. She had more interesting things on her mind than the make-believe sex life of a practical virgin. But unbeknownst to her, I resolved to do exactly what she half-facetiously suggested - with one modification. I was an accountant, after all, and liked efficiency, so I determined to take on all her sexual assignments in one...sitting.

I decided to choose an internet sex site and would order up a fuck buddy; something with a cock attached to it, something without the tedious male baggage-train that too often follows in the wake of these things.

In short, I refused to be wined and declined to be dined. I didn't crave flowers and abhorred the monotony of fictitious romance. And when it was finished, I didn't want some doe-eyed boyfriend nipping at the heels of my cherished privacy, pestering me for more...of something. 

I chided myself for not thinking of the scheme sooner and I smiled a demure smile, thinking, yes, I could do it, and more importantly, I could keep it simple. Simplicity meant keeping it black and white. And while I was curious about how "colors"- those complicated commitments known to exist inside relationships - might feel, they posed too much jeopardy for me, and made me uneasy.

But still and all, much as that yearning gnawed at me, urging me to take a peek into a mysterious rainbow world of intellectual intimacy, there was too much risk, and the idea of emotionally shackling myself to any man, of having a real connection with another, was too frightening for words. It was the single thing holding me in check, because taking that step meant revealing who I truly was. No, I decided. Not now anyway. Sex this time would be perfectly physical. I convinced myself it was the right option. 

Yes, I'd have it all, but only in black and white. Colors could wait for a day, if ever it came, when "Mr. Right," happened along. 

Even so, I couldn't shake the idea completely; the vagabond feeling which loitered on despite attempts to suppress it. It drifted as it pleased, in and about my otherwise objective approach to everything wicked. 

But for the moment, the matter was decided. Just now, forsaking colors bright, I'd be that girl in black and white and as for gray, "Be off, I'd say, you'll have your way, some other day."

One thing was clear; the time for scheming was over. The time for browsing had begun.

End Story 1 - Scheming 

To be continued...



Sex in Black & White - Story 02



"It's all right for a woman to be, above all, human. I am a woman first of all." 

-Anais Nin

***

There are a staggering number of sex sites simmering out there. It took me a full week to make up my mind! 

Eventually, one in particular caught my eye, but at first, all I would allow myself, was a little browsing. Never having done anything like it before, I needed to get a feel for how it worked; for how complete strangers hooked up online. 

Cocks were everywhere - lots of them. The thought of them intrigued me. Surfing about on Cravingyou.com, my eyes absorbed their individual features, their large balls, their veiny textures, their cut and uncut tips. They drew and repelled me.

As expected, there were few women profiled and for those who did appear, I wondered idly about their reasons for being there. I questioned whether some might be plants to lure men into using the service. Like me, others, I concluded, had to be for real and were genuinely looking for sex. 

Cravingyou wouldn't let me browse fully, unless I first created a full-blown profile. That angered me, but not enough to pull back. 

And their questions! They were so blatantly sexual that at one point I indignantly slammed my laptop shut, thinking they could go to hell. But by then, it was too late as the idea had taken hold in my mind and I had to admit, there was something erotic about baring myself anonymously to complete strangers. 

So I inched along, spending hours focusing my eyes on huge erections and overly inviting sidelines written by men looking for willing women to fuck.

And there was my profile itself. I had to decide what to include in the stark barrenness of their questionnaire. Should I say this? Should I include that? Is it naïve to admit what I really want? The questions kept coming.

The uncertainty of not knowing in whose hands my image might eventually end up nagged at me and I found the whole thing harder than expected. But after a few days of toying with the wording, I finally pulled it together; my very own page. 

When finished, my index finger shook slightly as it hovered over the mouse and I tapped once, but too lightly, and then too lightly a second time. Neither one registered. On the third try, I managed to click send and instantly became visible to the whole world. 

Question: How big a role does sex play in your life?

* Answer - No role at all. But it's something I wish to explore with an experienced partner who doesn't mind getting creative.

It was true about my sex life. I didn't have one. An understatement to say the least; I was totally uninvolved. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It's been three years since I last got laid! Any way you look at it, an eternity between partners. 

At the time, my experience amounted to this: I had allowed one man -- although granted, I'd endured him a dozen times - into one of my body's entrances. So yes, my sex life certainly was limited. But my horizons weren't. Where sexuality is concerned, women should have the same freedoms as men do - it's a "parity thing". Of that, I was sure. If I wanted creative sex, I would have creative sex and I didn't need a steady boyfriend to do it. 

Question: How much enjoyment do you get from giving or receiving oral sex?

*Answer - I've never tried either, but am curious about both.

Given the day and age, I felt brave to admit it. Twenty-three and I hadn't sucked a cock. My sex had never been feasted on by some ravenous boy. 

Surely, it was long overdue but I still found the prospect scary, especially the fellatio part. What if I was no good? What if I couldn't even make him hard? And what if I wasn't able to come when he reciprocated? All men expect us to love it, after all. Would he be insulted if I didn't?

Question: Do you swallow?

*Answer - No.

Well, I wouldn't and hated the thought of it. 

But Anya was clear about this. "Men adore it, Taryn," she had said. Washing the dishes when she told me, she hadn't so much as turned around to face me for emphasis. It was expected of me and was something she took for granted. But I couldn't. And I knew it.

"Frankly, I don't care what men love Anya," I retorted petulantly. "And I don't want them to love me. If I ever do it, it will have to be on my terms." This time she did turn around and her look was stern. 

But knowing my strong feelings, Anya counseled rehearsal. "Listen to me," she said. "Take a spoon and a container of plain yogurt. Sit in front of a mirror and drop a dollop onto your tongue. Play with it like a porn star mouthing a fresh load. Then, stop thinking for a change and swallow in a gulp." I frowned at her. "Do it, Taryn," she urged. "It's good practice!" The idea seemed ludicrous to me but she was so serious and because I loved her, I tried it -- with her there.

The project only lasted a minute because as soon as that first spoonful hit my tongue, I resolved it might just as well have been "it." And like the complete failure I was, my hand flew to my mouth as I ran off to vomit. "I'll never be a swallower, Anya!" I cried into the echoing ring of the toilet. I wanted sympathy and knew she was disappointed.

But she had accomplished her goal and I learned that if a man ever did come in my mouth, I'd panic and scramble around the room in search of the nearest potted plant to spit in. Options, I needed options! Anyway, I would have to be careful about this as I didn't want to make a scene with a man. 

Anya had half-expected it. "If that doesn't work," she advised, "let him come on those gorgeous boobs, Taryn. Then rub his sperm over them like it's warm body lotion. They'll shimmer in candlelight and he'll like that." Humph. I doubted I'd have the inclination to do that either, but because it was her, I decided to keep an open mind.

Question: If you don't swallow, would you be willing to try it? 

*Answer - For the right partner, I would consider it. 

This was nearly a complete lie but I had to post it that way. And besides, I concluded, I just might, for the "right partner." Maybe for a guy I was really into, for someone I truly loved - or at least liked a lot -- then I might...might swallow. 

But afterward, I thought, what if I retch right in front of him? How gross would that be? He'd be insulted by my rejection of his manhood's sticky distillate. The prospect was too revolting for words. 

Though it was undeniably out of the question, I persisted in leaving the dishonest "I would consider it" answer on my page, thinking I wouldn't get any hits without a swallow alternative. A girl has to make sacrifices sometimes.

Question: What are your thoughts on anal sex?

*Answer - I haven't tried it either, but am very interested.

I hadn't tried it, and my restrained but underlined answer barely hid my biggest secret. Yes, I was interested, but not just interested - interested, in fact, I was very interested, no, I was very, very interested!

Truth be told, I wanted it in two part harmony. Anal was one, and I so needed to be filled back there. But I didn't want just any anal. I wanted it deep and had fantasized about it since prepubescence, when I had secretly found unspeakable bliss, inserting whatever I had; graduating from hairbrush handles to anal probes to...well, the jury remained out on that final step. 

In any event, I loved it, and the fact that it would hurt made it all the better. The idea of being stretched - forced even - was gripping. Anal...yes, I wanted it, and the deeper the better, so though the cock I chose wasn't the biggest one I'd fondled in my mind's eye, it was long - and I thirsted for long. Anya was right. Big, that is, "thick", could wait for later.

Question: What's the largest number of people you've shared a sexual encounter with in one session?

*Answer - I've only had one-on-one sex.

One guy. A paltry few times; experiences which hadn't been terribly satisfying to say the least and to make matters worse, I hadn't orgasmed, not once, and I wondered if I could even accomplish that little feat with any man. 

Of course, long before that first time, I knew how to make myself climax. So as I lay beneath him, and despite his frantic thrusts, my mind wandered, past fleeting images; images of the most severe of my cravings; to have a man bind my wrists, forcing my legs wide apart and abusing my wanton rectum. But back then, like now, I just couldn't bring myself to come right out and share such secrets with a man, at least not outright.

Somehow it seemed like it was a man's job anyway, I thought huffily. He should think of such things! What good was he if he only wanted nice sex, I wondered? In any case, I assumed someone with the audacity to post photos of his erection on Cravingyou, would show some imagination without promptings from a humble woman. 

Considering what he was getting in return, I shouldn't have to give him specifics, but in the section that followed, I more or less did anyway.

Question: What types of sexual activities turn you on?

*Answer - Giving Oral Sex - Receiving Oral Sex - Anal Sex - Toys (Vibrators/Dildos/etc.) - Rimming - Light Bondage - Mutual Masturbation - Handcuffs/Shackles - Blindfolds

There, in the end, I had laid it all out as plainly as I could. And anyone worth fucking could see where I wanted all of this to go. I mean really; rimming? Shackles? All with a total stranger? What else did I need to say? 

After that, it was only a matter of finding a willing participant with a long dick, who could read and who might recognize something truthful from a girl if it fell on him. There had to be someone like that out there.

Question: What types of sexual activities are OFF LIMITS to you?

*Answer - Water Sports/Urine, Cross-dressing, Making home "movies", Participating in erotic photography, Coprophilia/Scat

Yuck. No thank you. Question: Have you ever had erotic pictures or video taken of you?

* Answer - Not that I know of.

Frankly, though I prayed I wasn't videotaped during my first experience, these days a girl just never knew. 

The "secretly taped movies" phenomenon frightened everyone. Anya told me she'd been filmed once. She was heartbroken that her former boyfriend - that complete fucking asshole - had posted a video of her on YouPorn! 

"It's out there for gazillions of wankers," she'd sobbed one night. "I'm such a fool, Taryn." I felt terrible for her. She was destroyed and I didn't know what to say. What I wouldn't do to that guy. "Don't ever let anyone tape you Taryn, not ever!" She made me promise. 

But what if this guy I eventually hooked up with did it anyway -- secretly I mean? What if he took me to a place that a bunch of boys, working together, used as a depot to get laid, a place all conveniently wired for video? 

I would never know and might be equally victimized by the all-too-ready availability of modern technology. I dreaded the thought but just as I did with all dreaded thoughts, it got pushed away. I told myself I'd think about it tomorrow.

Question: Does size really matter to you?

* Answer - I think it does, but it needs to be proven. I want someone to show me one way or another.

As it turned out, though, I think big would have been nice. He was average, at least based upon my limited experience along with hours of internet penis browsing. God, some of the cocks out there were huge and I wondered how any girl could handle them! 

"How do you know he'll fit?" I asked a mildly amused Anya one day. "I mean, how big is big?"

A certified expert, she responded straight away. "Big is nice, Taryn," she admitted matter-of-factly. "But this is the last thing you should concern yourself with now."

"Really? But why?"

"Because any vagina can manage any cock, that's why. It's just the way we're made." She looked at me and knew at once what I was thinking. "And you listen to me, my back door pet," she added severely. "Anal is another story and I want you to start with something...less than." 

Thinking about her precaution throughout my comprehensive research into cocks, I eventually did as she asked and settled on a "less than" overpowering erection, just in case my chronic anal yearnings found an opportunity to play themselves out. It turned out I needn't have bothered, as he never went beyond sticking his thumb up my ass. 

Question: What kind of relationship(s) do you want?

*Answer - Play partners, Short term, Casual, Fuck buddies, BDSM

About the BDSM thing: Let's just say the very thought of being on my back, legs tied to uprights and having my cunt whipped with a riding crop seemed like heaven.

Question: What is your current dating situation?

*Answer - I'm single and want to remain that way.

I needed this little detail "out there." No way was I looking for some deeply-rooted intimacy, at least not beyond the moment anyway. An orgasm or two -- or ten - and maybe a glimpse of what it might be like to be desired was all I wanted. If that was a lover, so be it, I reasoned, but otherwise, things had to be black and white.

The train had finally arrived and as I waited to escape the bitter cold of the platform, I decided I would tell Anya tonight. No, tomorrow - yes I would wait till tomorrow, after things settled in my own head. Then I would talk to her. She'd be upset with me because she understood the dangers implicit in dealing cards to strange men from the bottom of the sexual deck. Plus, I suspected she'd assume the life she led as an escort, had somehow influenced me badly. Yes, I'd wait. I would tell her tomorrow.

End -- Story 2 - Browsing

To be continued...



Sex in Black & White - Story 03



- Story 3 -- 

Reflecting 

We don't see things as they are; we see them as we are. - Anais Nin

*****

"So you're all set?" he asked casually, as we stood inside the entrance to Blackheath Station. Refusing to meet his gaze, I scanned the display for the next London-bound train. Platform two, fifteen minutes.

Stepping away from him slightly, I answered with feigned assurance. "Yes, I'm fine. Had a lovely time. And thanks for driving me to the station."

"Of course."

Struggling unsuccessfully to avoid eye contact, I scrambled to find something else to say. My mother had taught me a lot about good manners, but we had never covered this particular situation. "It was nice to meet you," I added finally, managing an unconvincing smile.

"Same here." 

On some level, he knew I found eye contact vexing and I thought back to how, only an hour ago, I had drawn him down to me, kissing him deeply for the sole purpose of having an excuse to shut him out, to close my eyes against his unshakable gaze. Intimacy hadn't been part of the bargain and not having changed my mind, once again I looked away. It was getting late and things had gone well beyond enough. In fact, I found his need for this final familiarity bordering on hypocritical as it didn't appear likely we would ever see each other again. I just wanted to escape, to have some time to piece together everything that had happened during the most surreal afternoon in my experience. 

I didn't live this way; at least I hadn't up until now, and was a little in awe that we were standing here politely, acting as if the afternoon's fucking hadn't happened. It was the strangest thing and I wasn't sure just yet, how I felt about it all.

"Well then," he said, plainly wanting to hurry things along. "I'll let you go. We should do this again sometime." As he leaned toward me, I offered him a cheek and his stubble scraped me one last time with a goodbye kiss. I accepted it with a civil chill. 

"Sure. Give me a call sometime, then." The second I said it I wished I could take it back. I mean, he wasn't actually going to call, was he? 

My overly-hasty exit from his bed made me doubt it, and I thought he must think me a complete bitch. But I wasn't sure that I cared. After all, I'd gotten what I came for. Stepping onto the escalator down to the platform, I furtively glanced back at the crowd. He was gone. It was over.

*** Ten minutes later, just another solitary girl riding the train, I listened as the big machine rumbled noisily through the darkness, its squealing wheels churning as it deftly negotiated the curves along the way back to London. 

The journey was a time to take things apart, I thought, to spread the pieces of the day's grand puzzle before me. No longer able to ward off their insistence that I lend them form, it was time to reflect on the whole thing, a destination I simultaneously starved for and hated the thought of. 

It was late evening and I sat the way everyone sits on trains, my upper body rocking to and fro in unnatural harmony to the carriage's swaying motion. Like everybody else, I stared out the window, avoiding eye contact with everybody else, something I didn't like as it made me seem like everybody else. 

And while everybody else read their papers or deafened themselves with iPods, my gaze fixed on the opposite window and unlike everybody else I thought back to a peculiar afternoon whose schematic I had meticulously orchestrated in days recently past.

The carriage's interior lights shone brightly, making it hard to see out, but still I caught glimpses of nameless villages whose ghostly snow-covered profiles appeared fleetingly in outline against the blackness of the night. 

Smiling discreetly to myself, I thought of how flawlessly my plan had worked. Within two weeks I had searched for, found, met, fucked and left a man whose name I had never even said out loud. I smiled confidently as I thought back to him; convinced I had kept it simple and could now ride off into the night, back home to solitude and the hot shower that would wash it all away like original sin.

However, with the passing miles, my lustrous marble surfaces, polished and gleaming at the start, showed signs of cracking as doubts began to simmer, and I wondered whether all might not be as black and white as I'd hoped. 

And to complicate matters, I was suddenly starting to feel tired. So clutching the now half-empty bottle of Diet Coke, and not wanting to think anymore right now, I leaned my head against the rattling window and closed my eyes. 

I felt her almost immediately of course, thinking, damn it, can't she just this once leave me alone? After all, I'd spent the better part of the day with a stranger piercing my body, and was finally able to breathe again. The last thing I needed was an audience with the Grand fucking Inquisitor. 

My defiance showed its fangs and I thought, I won't be intimidated, not this time. My plan had worked perfectly; there was nothing she could say to me. Steeling myself, I lazily opened my eyes, blinking in the bright light as her form swam into focus in the window. I had rarely seen her look at me so intently. 

I stared back of course, but knew it was futile. A vain attempt to make her uneasy; it hadn't the slightest effect. In fact as we continued to lock eyes, the only shift I felt was that of energy -- mine, or what little I had left -- flowing inexorably across the narrow aisle to her, embellishing her form. I expected the worst. 

Staring at me, she blinked when I blinked, she frowned when I frowned, and looked askance when I looked askance. 

I didn't like her much. "Little more than a second-rate imitation of myself," I scoffed, pulling at my white gloves before clutching the lapels of my black trench coat, cinching it tightly at the collar. She ventured a wry smile but otherwise remained mute. 

Deciding to meet her obvious disfavor head-on, I finally spoke. "Is there something you don't approve of, Mira?"

Ignoring the question, she continued her scrutiny, her eyes wandering my body from head to toe as she took in the disheveled leavings of my faultlessly planned but chaotically executed coupling. 

Returning her eyes to mine, that indecipherable smile of hers widened slightly before she spoke. "Why, Taryn Asher, you're wearing black for a change. How ladylike you look. Show me...show me all of it." 

How I hated that soft sarcasm of hers. I almost always wore black and she knew it. But why not show her? I looked good, after all. Opening my coat with the same assured slowness that I'd used on him hours earlier, I shifted the scarf to one side to unveil the tasteful but rumpled black cardigan and jeans. Then just as deliberately, I shut myself off from view as if to say, "Enough, you bitch."

Her nod, though acerbic, conveyed a certain caring and though I knew she wanted the best for me, her presence was annoying. Following up in business-like fashion, she asked a second question. "Is that apparel Taryn, or a philosophy of life?"

"Mira, please..." 

"Your sexy stockings - nice touch. But oh my, they're bunched around your ankles, you know. Has it struck you that in your rush to get away from him, you left your new garter belt behind? He's going to find it later tonight and think you left it there on purpose..."

"You're a smart-assed bitch! I snapped. "Of course it struck me! Don't you think I can feel my stockings slipping?" My head was starting to ache. "Why don't you just go away and leave me alone?" It was meant to come out as an order, but sounded much more like a tired plea. I throttled my coat ever more tightly at the neck and turned my face in the direction of a group of women sitting close by. Well worn, I thought. They reminded me of my mother, attractive in a tired sort of way, much as I was at the moment. Most had their hair up or cropped short like hers; each carried a touch of worry on her otherwise handsome face, as if she had learned too much about life and unlike me, refused to hide it anymore. 

My fingers toyed with the little silver cross at my throat as I thought about my mother, hundreds of miles away. A present from her on my eighteenth birthday, I had put it on this morning without thinking. As laughable as it now seemed, to me it had always been a talisman that would protect me from anything. 

"Tell me, Taryn; when she gave you that necklace, do you think she imagined you'd one day wear it as you lay in bed under a stranger?" Mira's tone had become more businesslike now. "She'd be appalled out of her wits if she knew what you did." I stuck my tongue out at her.

"Do you suppose any of those women have daughters who spent the day fucking strangers? Just what every mother wants; for her little girl to grow up to decide to do such things. But it's too late now anyway, isn't it, Taryn? To be considering what her reaction might be? It's done." 

Mira's nonchalant sniping only stiffened my resolve to lash back and to make matters worse, she was right. My new stockings were bunching around my ankles and I had left his house in a God-awful hurry; stumbling about, pulling clothes back on in an ungainly attempt to retreat to the pre-fuck sanity I wasn't even sure was sane. 

Anyway, she had managed to back my confidence, contrived as it was, against a proverbial brick wall, as I thought about that new garter belt, left behind in the hands of a stranger. Anya was a firm believer in wearing real stockings, and I had enjoyed their sexy feel more than a little. 

I tore back at her. "So what? So what if I'm thinking of my mother? She's none of your business, do you hear me?"

"Don't get testy with me," she answered calmly, forcing my attention back to the smudged window before adding sternly, "And do try to remember who you're talking to, young lady."

Retreating into what I hoped was a dignified silence, I ran my fingers over my swollen lips and refused to look at her. She continued on anyway. 

"That Diet Coke you're clinging to; you don't seriously think it's going to make the taste of his cum go away, do you? And I'm still waiting to see if we're going to talk about any of this." 

I sat in silence, watching her in the darkened window. It was smeared with the fingerprints of children whose sole purpose on trains, was to be kneel on hard cushioned seats, their snotty noses pressed against the cold glass. Despite the smudge, I caught a glint in Mira's eyes and knew she knew it all; that I wasn't fooling her in the least.

Failing to illicit a response, she continued. "You're not even going to try to justify it - are you, Taryn?" A practiced expert, her words, like daggers, slid smoothly through the joints of my usually sturdy emotional armor plate. "And just so you know, it never subsides, not completely anyway."

"What...doesn't subside?" I asked naively. Damn it, I thought. She always knows how to draw me out. Staring in silent critique, she made me ask a second time. "What?"

"Don't make tricks, Taryn. That musky taste; all tangled up with his unique scent; it's acting like a knife in your throat each time you swallow. And it's following you home, trailing behind like a sick dog as a reminder you had sex with a man you didn't know and didn't care about. Poor thing, you thought it was supposed to go away when he did. It won't. You'll go to sleep tasting sperm and will awaken to the same hated fragrance in the morning."

"I don't care, Mira. Anyway, it isn't even that bad," I snapped.

"Don't be so sure about that," she countered. "Remember, what you taste, I taste; what you swallow, I swallow and at the moment, we both know it's invading your total being." She laughed out loud, then added, "You silly girl. And your friend, what's her name? You know, the Russian?"

"You leave her..."

"She warned you it would happen, Taryn. She told you and you didn't listen. After a girl sucks dick, its owner rules a part of her forever. That you disregard my warnings is one thing -- not heeding them is your stock in trade - but I thought it was different with her; that you trusted her judgment. You're lucky he didn't ejaculate in your pretty mouth."

I found the thought sickening, instantly conjuring an image of myself on my knees before him, semen dribbling from the corners of my lips, frantically searching for a towel to spit into. 

Happily, the rude notion passed quickly and I thought, "Thank God for that." I didn't know what I would have done had he actually finished in my mouth. And he'd certainly had ample opportunity as I'd sucked him for what seemed like hours.

Mira was right; I should have listened when Anya raised the point weeks ago, but I didn't know what to do with it. Having sex, which I desperately wanted, meant sucking cock, which I wanted too. And sucking cock meant ingesting at least a little sperm and that was only if I was careful. But then, I wondered, what is a little sperm? At the moment it felt like there was no such thing. 

So when the inevitable happened and I was facing my first erection, I didn't know how to get out of it and basically prayed I wouldn't suddenly find my mouth filled with ejaculate. Such a terrifying thought. 

"After he's in your throat two seconds," Anya had warned, "it's all you'll taste for days." Escorts know, of course, but I had silently sidestepped her warning, which now acted as an unceasing reminder of misguided judgment. 

I liked things to be either here or there and I hadn't considered I might find shades of gray in it all, where his hold on me might persist even after we'd concluded our...session together. Frankly, I found his lingering smack infuriating and was pissed at myself for having allowed it to happen at all. 

What about a condom? I should have asked Anya whether it was all right to insist he wear one, but had I done so, she would have known something was up and would have asked questions I wasn't prepared to answer. Besides, insisting on a condom for fellatio was something he would have perceived as rejection. I couldn't do it. 

Interrupting my tattered reflections, Mira continued, "Taryn, don't think that taste is going anywhere soon. Answer me this, dear, is there a touch of queasiness in your tummy?" I glared at her.

"A touch, yes," I reluctantly admitted. I always assumed semen was basically harmless but wasn't feeling very well and thought maybe it was the wine; that I had drunk too much.

"The mind plays prankster, Taryn. You have a few million of those squiggly spermy things swimming about down there now and the very thought is bothering you. Isn't his taste preoccupying?"

"Yes, but drinking the coke will..." I hesitated, knowing she had me. "Anyway," I said, changing the subject, "Why did you have to bring this up?"

Ignoring the question, she simply smiled. "Oh, of course. Diet Coke solves everything." It would do nothing of the kind and deep down, I knew it. I had sucked something too sweet and too musky for too long and felt sick.

Mira shifted gears again. "Taryn, your girlfriend has been wondering about today. She's going to want to know where you were. Ready to reveal your exciting little...adventure to her?"

"I have no intention of explaining myself, not to anyone," I shot back. "And what's more, I don't have to. What I do with my body is my business, Mira." 

"Somehow, that's exactly what I expected you to say," she went on. "But this isn't some kind of game. It became deadly serious the moment you began browsing testosterone-filled cocks on that preposterous website and you've played it dangerously close to the edge with this one. Remember too, no matter how secretly you planned it, concealing what you did, meeting him on the sly and all, in the end; it still has to make some kind of sense to you. Does he have Herpes?" 

"What a thing to ask!" I protested indignantly. "How would I...?" "Well, does he?" Unremittingly answering her own questions, she carried on. "Of course you wouldn't know - how could you? It's not like he'd admit it. But then, you might be the only woman he's seeing, right?" 

"I hadn't thought about it," I answered softly, while taking another swig. From the scornful look she shot me, I knew she knew I was lying through my teeth. "Anyway, I don't think he does." 

"Does what?"

"Have herpes..."

"Oh, that. Well I'm sure you're right. But let's face it, you can't know and you did suck him, sin preservativo, so whatever he has, you already have. And by the way, I'm curious about something. Why didn't you make him wear one? You're demanding enough otherwise and aren't exactly enamored with the thought of getting a mouthful of you-know-what."

"If you must know, I didn't want to spoil the mood." 

"Honestly? You put yourself in danger of walking off with some permanent microbe and were worried about ambience? Are you serious?" I stared at the floor. "Was any of it even slightly romantic? Mmm?"

"It was in a way, because..."

"And besides, he didn't exactly volunteer to wear one when he basically demanded that blowjob, now did he? No, of course not, they never do, especially if a dim-witted girl is willing to suck him off anyway."

I glowered at her in silence and took another draught of coke.

"The drink isn't helping, is it," she added flatly. "The taste will only become more virulent, Taryn because you blew a man you had no feelings for; we both know it's true." 

Clutching the bottle tightly now, more for comfort than anything else, I admitted to myself, but not to her, that she was right again, as the usually bracing liquid wasn't nixing the excessively sweet taste of his semen, now attached like barnacles to my frazzled tonsils. 

And it wasn't only his sperm that troubled me. For God's sake, I didn't even know who he was and had devoted hours to fellating him in exchange for a bit of tenderness which, though he had granted it, was definitely something "given" out of the goodness of his heart. Even I knew he didn't feel the slightest affection for me. 

A moment later I silently rejoiced as the train decelerated, knowing Mira's image, and the blistering exchange she'd forced me into, would vanish in the bright light of the platform. 

By the time the great iron beast jarred to a groaning halt at Hither Green I needed one thing; relief from her demanding grilling. Suddenly, the train jolted still, seeming to bump some undefined object on the tracks.

With the shadows of the countryside now replaced by the glaring lights of the busy station platform, I saw dozens of would-be passengers milling about, huddled against the cold and waiting for the car doors to shift to the open position. 

That's when I spotted her. Lovely in white, she was hard to miss, dressed against the winter chill in fox roller hat, matching full-length coat and high heeled boots. She gracefully parried the crowd, pacing nervously just outside the window. Attempting to hold the station's racket at bay, she tightly covered an ear with one hand and held her cell phone against the other, seemingly waiting for someone to pick up - all with a distressed look on her face. 

It wasn't just that the arresting woman stood out in a crowd. Her unpredicted presence startled me. Ignoring my phone's vibration, I hurriedly leaned forward and fumbled with the buckle of my shoe. Pulling it off and hobbling across the aisle, I madly tapped its heel against the opposite window. It worked, as Anya's attention instantly found me just as I drew my own cell phone from the side pocket of my purse. "Anya, I'm so glad you're here!" I stuttered into the phone. Then, frantically pointing in the direction of the carriage doors, only now just opening, I added, "Quick, get on the train."

Looking at me through the window and moving her cell phone from her ear, she lifted her shoulders as if to say, 'Taryn, what the fuck?' 




Sex in Black & White - Story 03



Turning about, she fought against the crowd, eventually working her way inside the car to my seat. She arrived still holding the open phone and looking down at me nervously exclaimed, "Taryn, what the fuck?!"

End - Story 3 - Reflecting

To be continued...



Sex in Black & White - Story 04



Story 4

Deceiving

** 

Each friend represents a world in us, a world not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born. -- Anais Nin -

***

"Anya!" Taryn gasped. "How did you - what are you doing here? How did you know I was on this train?"

Obviously puzzled by seemingly unrelated questions, the girl, a vision in white, responded with cautious surprise. "Taryn...you texted me. I came as soon as I got it. And Taryn, why are you here? It's Saturday night. You hate going out on Saturday nights. What's happened? What's wrong? You're upset." 

Without waiting for explanations, she placed her arms around her friend's shoulders, hugging her tightly as the train's jarring movement rocked the women, even as they pulled apart. Taryn saw consternation ranging Anya's usually composed features.

Speaking in hurried agitation, Taryn undertook to explain the enigma. "It wasn't me. I didn't send that text, but...Anya, I've done this thing." She looked at her friend imploringly, as if hoping she would understand without her having to say any more. 

Anya's eyes narrowed and shaking her head slightly she glanced down in bewilderment at her phone. "What, sweetheart? What did you do?"

"It's something - I'm not sure now - whether I should have done it, and I didn't tell you about it and I know we tell each other everything and I'm sorry I didn't, I truly am. But I thought you might worry - all right - no, I'm not being completely honest and I'm stopping that right this minute." She raised her eyes briefly to meet Anya's baffled gaze, before dropping them again. 

Taryn's unabated rant was flooding their space, as the astonished women almost gently fell backward into a seat. With each word, Anya grew more confounded, glancing now and then at her open cell phone, wordlessly referencing the baffling text.

"I didn't say anything because I knew you would tell me not to do it, or to at least be more careful and it all happened so quickly and by the time I did it, I was afraid to even call you and anyway, I thought to myself - even at the last minute -- I might still back out and wouldn't see him, and then I'd never have to trouble you with it at all, or at least I wouldn't go home with him, but then I did anyway...Anya, how did you say you knew I would be here?"

"You wouldn't go home with whom?" she asked, eyeing Taryn warily.

"With him, with this guy I found. But you said you got a text from me. I don't understand. What text?"

"This one. Look," the puzzled woman snapped, holding the tiny screen of her phone before Taryn's wide eyes. She read the text out loud:

Anya - am on the Gravesend Line to London. Meet me. Hither Green @ the 6:35 stop. Need you - to tell you something...Important! -- Tar.

"What do you mean, you didn't send the text?" Anya asked, resuming their discordant conversation.

"Oh that", Taryn commented offhandedly. "Well, like I said, it wasn't me...not exactly. It was her, Mira. That much I'm sure of. But it's not important - the only thing that's important is that you're here and I'm glad you're here and..."

"Who's Mira?"

"Mira, well yes...well, she's just this girl I know, but like I said, I'm so happy you're here." A look of relief came to rest on Taryn's face.

Her puzzled friend, leveling an auditing gaze, continued in vain to ascertain exactly what was happening, as Taryn's words still made little sense. In frustration, Anya paused the unruly chatterer and holding her arms firmly, said, "I'm not interested in texts sent by mystery girls, Taryn, but plainly something happened today and you needed me, so here I am and well...tell me! And please stop talking in riddles!"

The few moments since Anya's unexpected appearance disguised the fact that far more passed between the two than one might have expected based on their mixed-up conversation. Anya was certain of one thing; for some reason, her friend's emotions were fragmented, leaving her a strange mixture of satisfaction, relief, sadness and regret.

"Look at you! You're exhausted. And what happened to your hair?" She asked, raising her wide eyes.

Taryn glanced at her reflection in the opposite and now vacant window and feebly leaned back in the seat, her head bumping the glass with a thud. With the train once again underway, her features turned chillingly sober. As she continued to stare into the night, her friend had to lean closer to catch her whisper. "I had sex today, Anya. With a man I'd never met before. Do you hate me?" 

***

The two had met one busy day a year earlier when, tired and in search of a place to escape from the crowded streets, Anya Vyrubova had retreated into Northanger Abbey, a secluded coffee shop in Kensington. Scanning the tables, she spotted a single empty chair over the back of which rested a black suede jacket and matching purse.

Sitting opposite was a strikingly beautiful but studious-looking girl whose creamy skin and auburn hair instantly drew her attention. She was immersed in a heavy book as if the world wasn't swirling around her. 

The tastefully-dressed occupant sat by herself, somehow managing to maintain focus amid the café's organized pandemonium. Anya couldn't help smiling, admiring the girl's powers of concentration and taking a deep breath, she brazenly worked her way to the half-vacant chair.

Catching a glimpse of the book's cover as she drew closer, Anya commented, "That's a great story." 

Looking up, the reader motioned to the tired shopper with her index finger. "Will you join me?" Flashing a cautious but friendly smile she then asked, "So, you like Flaubert?"

***

From that moment, their conversation darted with a surprising natural harmony from here to there and before their long walk by the Thames drifted into evening, they had both revealed their love of reading, the subtle variations on how their mothers had taught them to make whipping cream, and had swapped email addresses.

Within a month, the term "girlfriends" had taken on new meaning as they began doing everything together, in the process developing a closeness which had the effect of synchronizing two independent and complicated intellects.

Each, they soon learned, was enthralled by the professional life of the other. Taryn Asher had never known an escort and couldn't get enough of her secrets. Anya, the daughter of Russian expatriates and escapees of Soviet cruelty, had once worked the world of legitimate enterprise and was mildly amused to discover someone of Taryn's stirring ability and deep learning amidst a business world rooted in deception. 

She had seen so little of it during her brief employment in London's Square Mile before becoming a working girl two years earlier when, opting to make more money and tired of being groped for free, she changed careers and due to her stupefying physical beauty, drew in high-end clients.

Anya brought strange experiences to the relationship and rapidly grew to care deeply for her exquisite companion, even half-jokingly suggesting that Taryn might slip into "the business" of doing outcall on weekends. 

"You'd have men crawling all over you, darling," she had once remarked. "It's that virginal innocence you project without knowing it...powerful men will pay a lot of money for it. And you're smart; you can talk about anything. Remember, ninety percent of an escort's time is spent in conversation, not sex."

Smiling, the professional woman entertained the thought for an instant, admitting wittily, "Tell you what Anya. If I lose my job, I'll give it a go."

But by then her presence in the auditing department had prompted a boost in productivity and the firm's management had taken notice. That's when she half-reluctantly gave up the idea, instead accepting a promotion at the esteemed accounting firm of Ernst & Young. It was a near-run thing, though, as the idea of working with Anya intrigued her.

Their relationship became a wedding of peculiarities, with the dissimilarity of their lives feeding rather than dampening brushfires of interest. Call girls lived in shadows and dark corners, places which simultaneously attracted and repelled Taryn.

Principally, the sheer multiplicity of Anya's sexual encounters affected her, and she began to see her new friend as someone to whom she might reveal her hidden things, things she kept shrouded in what she euphemized as her "real life."

It started with popcorn. Staying up late together one Saturday night, they watched "The Story of O". Before viewing the cult classic, the girls agreed to three rules: each would wear her rattiest flannel pajamas, each would reveal something sexual and together they would make authentic, not microwave popcorn.

"You go first," Taryn insisted meekly and with more than a hint of embarrassment.

Anya, who moved about her sexuality with almost frightening ease, described the "Pisser", a Brazilian coffee executive who breezed into town now and then. 

Taryn's eyes narrowed and crossing her arms over her chest, she asked incredulously, "You mean...you let him...pee on you?!"

"Sure," Anya said crisply, stopping mid-bite to look over at her. "Why?" 

Holding her hands tightly to her face to mask a blush, Taryn exhaled heavily. "Why do you think we call him the Pisser?" Anya asked smirkingly. "He makes a mess, okay? But he's basically harmless. Besides, he's a good tipper. All the girls like him."

Taryn's screwed up her nose in dissent. "Oh don't be so judgmental," Anya snapped. "You'll have to get used to some fetishes, darling; either that or avoid sex all together because every man has... well, some!"

An interminable stillness settled upon the two, as Taryn grappled with her preconceptions. Then the inevitable happened. "So? I told you about the Pisser," Anya warned. "Now it's your turn. What? Tell me. And don't give me any namby-pamby bullshit. It has to be something hot."

This was the moment when Taryn genuinely wanted to reveal what clawed at her insides, to tell her friend she had been internet shopping, actively seeking a sex partner online, all to be accomplished without a hint of commitment. 

But she wavered, knowing Anya would instantly blame herself, that is, her own "bad example" for any folly Taryn was on the verge of plunging into. She would argue perpetually that her own lifestyle was evil, in hopes Taryn would change course. She'd be overly insistent that Taryn not get laid, something that was no longer an option, as the willful girl had already made up her mind and that was that.

Taryn understood herself well enough to know that when she got like this, she would defy risks and would lunge forward despite having her own personal sex trainer to whom she could be listening. 

She didn't want to hear any arguments which might pit her plans against her greatest fear: Anya's impeccable logic backed by unimaginable experience. 

"You're the most bullheaded woman I've ever met," Anya hissed at her one day. "Once you've made up your mind, forget it! You won't listen to anyone!" She was right, and it weighed heavily on Taryn since she knew she'd be hard-pressed to offset the call girl's inevitably contrasting views, on this subject especially.

And there was another, more urgent problem. The girls showed a natural curiosity about each other's sexuality. Carried out in fragmentary conversation, and not due to any particular need to know, they constantly probed, for the most part answering each other's questions frankly.

But like everyone, each girl hid things. Indeed, Taryn had wordlessly carried the burden of her online antics for weeks, all the while desperately wanting to reveal them to her friend, and now, complete with real buttered popcorn, she suddenly found herself facing the ideal opportunity.

The revelation, regardless of the alarm it might set off, would seal the friendship in immeasurable ways, making a potent statement of trust and love. But at that moment and standing under Anya's patient but scrutinizing gaze, her resolve hedged, panicked and fled. She simply didn't dare allow herself the "out", but instead tendered a stealthy diversion. She would offer her most secret fetish in exchange.

"Anya, I... I need to be tied up during sex," she admitted. "I won't feel anything from it, unless I'm bound...um...with my legs forced, you know, wide apart." Thinking Anya might cringe, she quickly added, "It's okay though, because there are safe words so if I don't like something I can stop things." Her words seemed tentatively offered.

Any other woman might have been taken aback by the disclosure but Anya knew too much; she'd seen it all and merely nodded. Running delicate fingers across Taryn's brow, and curling the soft hair behind her ear, she soberly imparted a precaution. "Don't be naïve, green eyes," the working girl said. "Once you're tied, there are no safe words. A man can do anything to you."

The rasp in her voice brought a shiver to Taryn's spine, not because she felt any danger - the thought of it rarely crossed her mind - but it contained a veiled hint that Anya had lived through something terrifying and her first thought was to question what it was, but she hesitated a second time, thinking maybe it was better left for another day.

Besides, Anya didn't react when she glanced over at her, but rather turned to stare at the television screen, her eyes filled with emptiness, as if she'd said nothing.

A strange silence settled over the exchange, interrupted by the intermittent and almost slow-motion crunch of popcorn, tossed less frequently now into the girls' mouths. Otherwise, each allowed the moment pass by.

Taryn's more immediate secret was safe. She would find that sex partner.

End - Story 4 -- Deceiving

Note: To be continued...



Sex in Black & White - Story 05



Dreams are necessary to life. Anais Nin  


It was never meant to be that big a deal. What I wanted was really the simplest thing. What I wanted was affection, and of course, anal sex. 

But that's not where it had all gone. Instead, sitting topless before a complete stranger, nervous beyond belief, alone in a strange city, upstairs in a strange house, and so close to a strange cock I could smell the pungent aroma of sperm, I looked up at him and thought, something isn't right. This isn't the way it's supposed to be.

It started only minutes after I bared my breasts to him, and he now seemed to want – no, expect – something else; to be sucked off. And it wasn't that I was unwilling, it's that I didn't want to do it...just yet, you know, not straight away. Why couldn't he see that? 

The answer seemed obvious enough; he had become preoccupied. So, with him "resting" his hands a little too assertively on my narrow shoulders, I found myself hoping that if I had to do this now; if he had to have his precious blowjob, that he would at least power his way past my lips and down my throat. 

A man showing resolve in bed, even though we weren't exactly "in bed," was something I liked - no, craved - and I would at least have respected him for taking me by the hair and giving it to me in the mouth, hard.

But instead, he did exactly what I didn't want him to do. He just stood there, his pants down around his knees, smiling at me as if to say, "You've nowhere to hide now, so do it." 

That unspoken yet deafening ultimatum disappointed...no, it annoyed and baffled me as I didn't know what to do with it and found myself torn between two desires; one, to have my own way with things and the other, to be led about – no, driven – by this stranger.

Dropping my eyes, I took a breath. His cock was hard. Was that a good thing or not? I couldn't decide, but I had been expecting something flaccid, something soft and friendly that I could take in my mouth and, well, acquaint myself with before it started threatening to spill its fluids down my virgin throat. 

But there was nothing friendly about the purplish thing bobbing merrily in front of my dry lips, least of all that pesky slit at the tip; something Anya tagged a man's "little eye." I saw now what she meant - it did everything but wink at me! 

And there was a tiny but noticeable drop of ooze...sitting right there; in front of my nose, so I knew his testicles were up to something whose end product, I supposed, women were required, by some unwritten rule, to suffer happily.

Ever-so-slightly, he increased the pressure of his hands on me and in desperation, I fantasized that he owed me one wish, like Geppetto wishing on a star in the tale of Pinocchio and if I'd had the courage, I would look up at him and say: "Would you mind very much if I texted my girlfriend? I've got my phone right here and it won't take a minute!" 

Yes, if I had my star just then, I'd have wished I had told my Anya when I had the chance. She would instantly know what I should do. But then, that was exactly why I hadn't told her. Because I knew what she would say, and it wouldn't be to remain here nursing this strange cock. 

She'd tell me, no doubt, to gather my things and run like hell. But it was too late and it was hopeless now...not even my darling friend could get me out of this one.

Making one last attempt to extricate myself gracefully, I gazed up pleadingly into his eyes. "I've...never, you know, done this before," I whispered. 

His smile was equal parts sympathy and amusement. "That's all right, love," he said, one hand moving to the back of my head. 

Upon reflection, the comment was laughable; so stereotypically inexperienced female. Don't all girls default to that one with all guys, all first times? I wondered. But the thing was, it was completely true and he knew it was completely true. 

But he wasn't in the least interested in truth. We had searched for and collided with one another in this bizarre cyberspace - whatever it was - which had brought me to a place where frankly, truth was the last thing a man cared about. 

No, I had to get real. He wanted his blowjob and I was here to fulfill whatever it is that makes cocks delight in being sucked by women.

I marveled that it had taken me this long to realize I wasn't holding any cards. In fact, I hadn't held any since meeting him at the restaurant, since he had helped me slip my coat on and smiled at my simple-minded answer to his central question: "So, do you want to go to my place?"

"Yes," I'd said. The rest was implicit: Yes, I want to go to your place. Yes, I want to fuck. That had done it. From then on, he owned me.

Deep down, and despite the imbecility of what I had gotten myself into, I understood perfectly now, the folly of browsing for a stranger, of selecting a stranger, of meeting a stranger, of going to a stranger's house, of allowing a stranger to suck my tits for God-knows-how-long, of kissing a stranger deeply - and for me, rather affectionately even - of letting a stranger strip away one defensive shield after another, all the while knowing that following that stranger up the stairs to his bedroom would bring me nothing but trouble. 

Despite all of it, I had still stood on ceremony even as I followed him to the bedroom like some Japanese bride, thinking, isn't a gentleman supposed to let a lady go up the stairs first? In case she falls? But Anya was so right; sex is about power and it was only now, with a stranger's drooling cock moments away from savaging my lips that I really got it, that I had nothing else left. 

I felt so naïve. It had never really occurred to me that my perceptions of sex might not in fact be anywhere near its reality, yet here I was, facing exactly that, sexual reality, and in this instance, the cock jutting into my face simply stated: "Suck now!" 

The shift in power, something I had felt straightaway when I agreed to leave the Founder's Arms Restaurant with him, had done it. At that instant, I gave up everything. 

Back there, a telling sort of smile had appeared on his face and the deferential treatment he'd lavished on me during the previous hour, pulling out my chair and ordering wine to my liking, all during our "get to know you drink," had all but melted into the winter chill. 

At the heart of the issue was something simple enough but due to my inexperience, not to mention a tendency to chance a little more trust than I should, I'd made a mistake - one he had instantly picked up on. 

He knew I wanted sex more than I wanted to be treated as a human being, let alone an equal, which put me in the position of bartering my body on the cheap. I'd always hated hearing stories of other girls who did that but here I was.

Why, I found myself wondering, did women...no, why did I, not approach sex more practically? Why didn't I use it as the currency it truly was, trading it in dribs and drabs as I wanted this or that? Why was I giving myself away for free? Anya would be furious with me when she found out, and rightfully so.

Anyway, by now things were past the questioning stage and I had to make this decision, which hadn't really shaped up as much of a decision since his hands were still "resting" on me, his erection now, just under my nose. The not-so-subtle whiff of cum was overpowering the rapidly diminishing neutral zone separating our bodies, and I could already taste him and hated it. 

I eventually collected enough fortitude to look up into his encroaching eyes a final time and silently pleading my case to go even more slowly, I found that smile had re-appeared, the one remindful of the restaurant, still making the exact same statement as before.

So I decided on bravery: "Taryn!" I dolefully shouted to myself. "Here's your chance! You've never sucked a cock before so what are you waiting for? Do it proudly or walk out of here with your tail between your legs, but for God's sake, make a fucking decision!" 

"Tell me about your gag reflex, Taryn," Anya had said without so much as taking her eyes away from O as her tormentors set upon her with a white hot branding iron. O screamed in agony as her exquisite skin sizzled. 

"Anya Tatiana Vyrubova! You know perfectly well I've never blown anyone!" I said indignantly. "So why are you asking me that?"

"Because I'm teasing you."

"Shit. I hate when you do that."

O's screams had barely subsided when Anya sedately added, "Listen darling, they sell those long cucumbers, burpless they call them. I saw them only yesterday at Borough Market." There was a curious lack of emotion in her voice. "Suck one into your mouth so you can find your level of tolerance. What I'm saying is, know your choke-point. You have to." 

"I will choke Anya," I mumbled. "I'm not good about having things put in my mouth that don't belong there; especially if they spurt."

"Taryn, do it anyway!" she insisted. "In any case, cucumbers don't spurt and the middle of a blowjob is no time for experimenting." 

That was two weeks ago and I never stopped at the market.

Firmly encircling his shaft with my fingers, I opened my mouth and felt the head of his cock bump the back of my throat as I swallowed him. Shit.

***

Finally, his dick had fit itself in my mouth, and a sticky muskiness lent itself to a complicated oral mix consisting of runny bodily fluids; his, mine, and God knew who else's. Instinct told me to obliterate it, and I tactfully tried spilling him away. But with my mouth stuffed as it was, my only option was the one I didn't want – I had to swallow. 

Such a predicament, I thought, having to consume something in order to get rid of it. Seeing no other way and granting he'd take exceeding pleasure in it, I half-heartedly gulped. 

Of course it accomplished nothing as it only made room for the next draught. My senses absorbed its fragrance which, in a rush, transformed into a clinging tang as his manhood eased itself more deeply into my throat. Fuck!

I hesitated, exactly as Anya predicted. I was embarrassed, just as she predicted. And he felt it, exactly as she predicted. 

Damn, I thought, I should have listened to her, but there was no way to escape, as cum has to go in either one direction or the other and to make matters worse, I could feel him watching; enjoying the show, I supposed, as my eyes teared and I imagined how silly I looked with two very black and simultaneous trickles of mascara, running down my cheeks. 

I suddenly pictured rocker Alice Cooper, complete with freakish war-paint. Cooper's face was put there for effect and as my throat once more constricted in an attempt to fend off the unwished-for invader, I hunched my audience of one was enjoying my own particular brand of war-paint.

He was manipulating the shit out of me and I, like some carnival show-horse, was running in circles for his amusement. I wondered how many women he did the same to; how many other mouths his cock had probed - this week, even - as he lined up victims like so many bowling pins on Cravingyou.com. Fuck times two. I really wanted him out of my throat.

I thought back to Cravingyou as he took control of things, sliding his erection in and out of my mouth. Now, with my palms resting on his thighs, my mind was freer to range about, to speculate on what he must have thought when he found my page. I wondered how many sites he might be into and concluded he could be browsing a dozen as he sought the perfect sex partner to do his bidding; a role I obviously wasn't fulfilling very well.

My thoughts returned to downstairs and how much I had enjoyed kissing - not kissing him, just kissing, an affectionate process I think too many men lost track of eons ago. I wanted to go back down there to re-sample the relative safety of that sensual fruit. 

Interestingly, a little while earlier he admitted as much, as we lay in one another's arms on his bed. He'd said that what we had downstairs had been "very nice indeed" and though he could have kissed me "all day", he of course hadn't. Too bad; it would have been a good investment. 

But he was free now to say such a thing, as we weren't downstairs anymore, indulging my girlishness. We were upstairs, a place where only my garter belt, sheer stockings and black strappy heels still survived. 

I had looked the part all right, the one I had carefully choreographed; all in black, my contrasting white scarf and wintry gloves having been carefully closeted after we entered the house. 

Yes, it had been a safe thing to say, at least by then, because the risk of not getting me up those stairs to his bedroom had long passed and I sat there obediently, my clothing strewn about the room and half my mind focused on cock while the other half wandered, poking into cerebral corners, the only places I ever truly felt safe. 

Whoever he was, he was well-practiced. I could tell because he slipped his cock in and out of my mouth with cautious precision, at first, anyway. But the façade was quickly falling away as his pace increased and my lips detected greater urgency in his movements. 

The initial minutes spent blowing him seemed like hours and even though this was my first time, I could sense his emotional frustration as it coursed through his erection, draining from his body to mine. 

It was a little frightening and was something, the pace that is, that Anya had spot lit for me. "You'll sense him building Taryn; your mouth will feel him as he readies to come and then, spurt, spurt!" She tended to bluntness.

Spurt! The thought's suddenness jolted me back to reality. Holy shit, I had to stop him! 

Digging my nails into his thighs, I forced him away and he popped out of my mouth as saliva and semen - or what passed as semen before a guy actually comes - gushed away, cascading down onto my heretofore virtuous chin. I looked up again as I wiped it with the back of my hand, hoping he wasn't pissed off.

Instead, through heavy breathing, I got what sounded like a compliment. "You sure you haven't done that before?" he asked, a little too flippantly. 

I smiled meekly but didn't say anything. It was nearly time to fuck.

End Story 5 - Sucking



>>>To be continued...



Sex in Black & White - Story 06



**

There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. -- Anais Nin

**

From time to time, Anya had mentioned the "natural rhythm" of sex but until this afternoon, I had scoffed at the notion - lightly perhaps, but scoff I did. However, as the day wore on, I found myself thinking, shit, is that girl ever wrong? 

With every step he had taken; slipping a hand into my bra, working my jeans down quivering thighs, he'd hesitated, almost imperceptibly, but it was there and I wondered at it. I hesitated too, but that was different. After all, he was supposed to be the one in charge. He'd led me to believe as much in the brief emails we'd exchanged before meeting. What had he said? Something about all the things he could show me? He'd shown arrogance. I'd shown naiveté!

At any rate, it was too late and there was no backing out. I had dutifully sucked his cock like a good girl and now...now I wanted to get laid and was growing impatient. How much longer was it going to take? 

As absurd as the image was, the whole thing reminded me of a game of Monopoly. How many times did I have to allow him to pass go?

I was handing Park Lane to him on a silver platter...in fact, not just Park Lane. Mayfair too...Mayfair, I decided, almost laughing out loud at the jeering comparison, representing anal. Anyway, he knew he could have whatever he liked yet seemed content to wander around in circles while I wanted to scream, just take it, will you?

My eyes explored the emptiness of the ceiling as he gently but firmly pushed me onto my back. Without protest, I acquiesced. What a surprise.

"You're an obvious submissive." Anya had remarked once. "You're such a funny one. Part of you wants independence - control, even - and the rest wants to be led around by some dangerous guy. I don't know what to make of you sometimes."

Lowering my eyes, I responded uncomfortably, "I don't know what to make of me all the time, Anya." 

As he eased me back, my breasts rolled softly, settling to either side of my ribcage as I fell against the cool sheets. We kissed again as he moved on top of me, his erection hard against my thigh and I held his head tightly as his now familiar tongue explored my mouth.

I wondered if he could taste himself after the blowjob. Can men do that? Or are they so drunk on their bodies they taste only us? I made a mental note to ask Anya's opinion.

It was another sappy question threading its way through my gallery of titillation as I perused and sampled fleeting visuals which for me were off limits during "real life." 

Leaving my mouth for a moment, he quietly whispered into my ear. "I like this. I like kissing you." Offering him what I hoped was an enigmatic smile, I wondered if he was lying.

You? You? I repeated the pronoun twice to myself as I gazed up at him. By now, I was sick of hearing the word. He hadn't called me by my name, not once, not that whole afternoon. I was getting an education in just how dehumanizing sex could be and thought, if kissing is intimate, addressing a girl by name is a long-term relationship.

"If all we do is to kiss like this," he added, "the day was worth it." I smiled for him again.

I did like it - a lot - the kissing, that is, but knew the barriers he applied to hold me firmly in place were there to keep our sexualities separate, with him supplying the cock and me submitting the cunt. 

Stop complaining, I chided myself. It's what you wanted! 

He drifted down my neck, abandoning those sweet kisses of a few moments ago and planting fresh but firmer ones in narrow pathways before descending to my nipples, which earlier, he'd worked fruitlessly to suck a response from. Their utter refusal to acknowledge his attentions, though not surprising to me, seemed genuinely puzzling to him. Guess he was used to tits that talked back with more...zeal.

Tarrying a moment at each of the rose pink summits, he fellated them, gently at first, then harder, from time to time, lifting his eyes, awaiting for the reaction I knew I was "supposed" to show in appreciation. It didn't happen. I felt nothing.

Didn't he know how self-conscious I was? Hadn't he noticed how I had covered my breasts the instant he had slipped my bra off? They were too large for my petite frame and I hated the thought of anyone seeing that.

I could feel his disappointment, but he soldiered bravely on, across the firmness of my tummy, lingering at my navel, which grew warm and then cool as the tip of his tongue scrubbed the little dimple, filling it with gluey saliva.

I knew his next effort would take him to my freshly-shaven slit, soaked with anticipation from what was supposed to have been a bout of simple fucking; something I knew now, had taken on greater complexity. 

True to form, little self-conscious me instinctively closed her legs. Not too tightly though, as I truly wanted to feel a tongue there. Another of those acts I'd "never done before", I was curious and wanted to know if I could come that way. Other girls did, or at least the contention was all over the internet, presented like some constitutional right and I thought back to our initial "I'm out here and want to have sex emails" from weeks ago when all of this started; when he had alluded confidently to his oral prowess. 

With his intentions now obvious, I remembered it was during one of those exchanges when I did the unthinkable, revealing to a strange man that I'd be at the finish of my period by today. He'd responded with an almost predictably appropriate answer. "That's all right, love. We don't have to do anything the first day, just get to know each other and have a drink." His tone had been reassuring. 

Knowing it was likely a fabrication, I still opted to take him at his word and checked the condition of things down there the previous evening. My tampon had been nearly clean - nearly. So when I'd showered this morning, I had taken the precaution of inserting a fresh one anyway.

If nothing else, its presence -- if I even let him get that far -- might ward off the whole cunnilingus thing and I thought, if I lost my nerve, if I changed my mind or if I suddenly grew uncomfortable...well, it might serve to stop him. Shit, like most things, I couldn't decide what I wanted. 

After all, I'd just met him and somehow, nothing seemed more intimate than a man putting his mouth on me...there, kissing that sensitive flesh and drinking in my juices. And yes, I knew everyone did it, but that did nothing to alleviate my self-consciousness. How could a girl not be?

Anyway, I had to do something before he found himself tugging at a tampon string with his teeth.

"I have to go to the bathroom!" I announced when he was only half a breath away. He froze as both he, and time, screeched to a halt.

In the face of yet another of my ill-timed interruptions, he stayed surprisingly calm. "Of course," he said, lifting himself aside. "This way." He showed me to the bathroom door which I slipped through and quietly closed, shutting him out. It felt good to be alone, and listening till his steps faded back to the bedroom, I cautiously leaned into the mirror.

The girl who stared back wasn't the same one who had smirked so confidently at me in the hall mirror this morning. With hair tumbled around her shoulders, cheeks rouged from his abrasive stubble and swollen lips testifying to having born hours of friction, she raised her fingers to her face, as if checking to see if it was really her.

Snapping back to attention from that tangential journey, but still focusing on my own dismal duplicate, I squatted and tugged, all the while eyeing myself warily in the mirror. Phew, I thought, it's clean. It was settled then. I was going learn what it was like to have oral sex after all.

With a flush, a turn of the doorknob, and arms folded across my breasts to diminish their natural sway, I tiptoed back to the bed where he extended a hand in cautious welcome. "Come here," he said. I slipped under the sheet. 

***

Playtime was over, that much was clear. Having fed myself to him a la carte for hours, I recognized he'd have to make his move now or face the prospect of having to explain himself to some 'end of time' tribunal which sits in judgment of things male, and to which he'd have a problem presenting a rock-solid case for masculinity if he didn't fuck me soon.

I imagined his plea to the court: "I held back with her Your Honor; waited hours even, all the time knowing she wanted it badly. Doesn't courtesy count for something?" He'd explain it all with deferential arrogance, of course. The judges, presumably all women, would show little mercy.

Anyway, by now I wanted to be fucked. I had only stalled the whole thing these past hours through fear; fear of allowing another man back into a body which had lived in a sort of sexual solitary confinement for years.

And the thought that that someone would end up being a guy I didn't know, had much to do with the splintering of my reasoning skills, now diverted due to what had apparently happened during my absence in the bathroom, because thankfully he had at long last decided to take full control of things; of me, something I desperately wanted.

For that matter, I had been "ready" from the beginning, at least physically. God, I was soaking before having left the apartment this morning. So yes, I was ready and certainly he, being a man, was ready. In fact, I so wanted to scream out loud: "FUCK ME GODDAMMIT, FUCK ME NOW! PLEASE!" But I didn't.

As I opened my legs to him, his hand went straight for my mons and we kissed again. A moment later he was back down there, licking my clit, apparently not caring about my whole menses fixation. 

He slid his tongue along my suddenly willing vaginal lips, still venturing to glance up at me, still appearing to seek that illusive sign of approval. 

I was too nervous to respond, at least not the way he would have liked, other than to widen my thighs even more, which I think pleased him.

His mouth felt good there - in a mild sort of way - and I grabbed at his hair as if to say "harder." Everything was so damned lenient with this guy - except for his cock, an object I hungered for but couldn't seem to get inserted.

Anyway, having decided oral was pleasant enough, I pulled him back up to my mouth - my "regular" mouth, that is - knowing the orgasm of my dreams wouldn't happen from a too gentle tongue on a clit aching for forcefulness. I needed him inside me and wondered what would all this be for if I didn't come? 

"That's so nice," he groaned into my open mouth, his fingers slipping into my sodden sex, whose condition, thank God, genuinely pleased him. It was the only firm reaction he'd gotten from my wavering body all afternoon and I was glad for him, poor thing. Too bad my conscious self had so little to do with it.

As he finally...finally, mounted me, I could feel the tip of his erection as he waited at the gateway of my sex where, using his hand, he moved himself round and round in concentric circles as if to say, "It's me, I've waited all this time, and demand entrance." 

He kissed me again, giving me the chance to close my eyes to him, to keep at bay that intrusive device he used to "see into me" with what I felt was too much effectiveness. "I don't want you to see in," I silently berated him. "Just get on with it! Fuck me!"

My thoughts again drifted, back to Anya, only this time to another breathtakingly arousing video we had watched together only a week before. In it, a wretched girl, her wrists and ankles tied to bedposts, her vagina spread wide apart and completely at their mercy, was taken by one man after another. I so wanted to be like her, to be bound and free from the litany of detested decisions which he'd put me in the position of having to make. He had done it on purpose, damn him.

Why he didn't just...I gasped with his lunge, and his erection slammed into me, collapsing my thought process which had drifted off for what seemed only a moment - for half a second! My eyes shot open widely and for an instant, I couldn't breathe and clenched his arms tightly as if hanging on for fear of falling from a cliff!

He had done it so consciously, had waited to pounce, knowing all along he'd launch himself into me that way, that he'd hit me a hard blow, there, between my legs, to jar me to the reality that he owned the game - always had.

His eyes, shit, had riveted on mine, catching my fluttering lids as they snapped open, and fuck, it was already too late as I refocused to discover him staring into me. In that split second I was laid totally bare, and worst of all, I saw him see in. Fuck.

Instinctively, I did the same, only in reverse, staring right up at him. His satisfaction was instant, and stunning me that way left a word graven on the white-board of his features. It spelled "Conquest."

Oh fuck - it had been so long - and it hurt and felt good and I knew what he had done.

He had retaliated. But I had played him - had dallied for hours upstairs and down -- and, as if settling a score, he'd taken his revenge. I deserved it, I supposed, as I'd stymied his persistent search to reveal what pleasured the woman under him as he sought, mostly in vain, to have that pathetic need of his assuaged.

In that moment, he witnessed in me the full shock of it; a woman's concurrent delight and dread at being pilloried under a man's weight and physical strength, of knowing he could do anything to me, as I was helpless. 

I fought desperately to shut him out again, but my eyes refused to answer as for an eternity of seconds, everything in me was on display. My mind's defenses, though feeling the searing heat from touching the burner called sex, and not recognizing its full scorch, had seen my skin blackened before my intellect had time to send its message back to slow-motion fingers, telling them too late, to retreat, to back away.

Fullness had mastered emptiness and his body now waited for mine to catch up after his initial vicious swoop. It did, eventually, signaling to him by opening my legs, just enough to allow that final inch of myself and as if to say, "All right, you've made your point. Now if you're going to fuck me, fuck me hard."

I'd almost forgotten how it felt; how much I enjoyed penetration but was speedily reminded, as we calmed and settled into the rhythmic dance of sex. But letting go was something different as he wouldn't, instead all the while continuing his search, his eyes still agaze, which to his annoyance, found mine persisting in silence, like two frozen lakes. "Now then," he quietly offered, "Is that good for you? Are you okay?" 

"It's good, yes," I answered, hinting affection now but still sidestepping pointless conversation. Placing my arm around his neck and pulling him to me, I once again kissed him deeply. In bits, my mind regained its resolve and my eyes found the courage to shut tightly, persisting in steeling themselves against a genuine inclination to open for him. 

I feared if given the slightest liberty, they might show even more of who I was in the midst of an encounter whose brevity was central to its fulfillment. I dreaded too much intimacy, that I might...there was no telling what my body might allow him.

And he did seem to try, I'll give him that; he strained to pleasure me but sadly, in the end, I don't think the effort was intended for me, but rather for himself, for the amusement of knowing he could bring me off.

He pumped my open sex like a machine, and it was good, with no more of that "catch her napping and pummel her" kind of thing, but much as he worked and much as I lay back and took him, I knew almost immediately he couldn't make it happen.

It was me. Something, something deep inside myself prevented it, prevented me from realizing the orgasm I craved with a man buried inside my dripping sex, so just as I did when alone, I sought my own way, carefully working my hand between our sweating forms, where I found it - my clit; swollen and ready but strangely detached from a body instructed since childhood to fend off exactly this; exactly him.

He said nothing and reacted not. But my digital flourish drew his displeasure. I felt it, knowing it questioned this shadowy man, a huntsman who had crawled out from his hiding place in the shadows of the World Wide Web. 

For a moment I worried as I thought he'd counter me, as he had when he'd taken me with that swaggering pounce at the beginning, that he might display some contemptuous look, an abbreviated breath even, which might declare his true thinking.

For a brief second, the opportunity held itself up, as if suspended in mid-air. It was there for the taking, right in front of him...but he let it pass, just as he had let them all pass and I felt sadness as Anya's admonishment rang loudly in my mind. 

"Erotica," she said, "issues through the joining of opposing sexualities, of his and hers. Otherwise we are slightly less than two people using each other's bodies to Jack or Jill off." 

But I didn't care anymore and continued nonetheless, working myself in spite of him. I guess I couldn't help taking a final swipe at his wanting skills. It was the meanness coming out in me, stating I knew he couldn't do it for me; that I, a lowly woman needed to intervene for herself in order to savor a simple orgasm!

Anyway, there was more - or less, rather - as a moment later, with my climax finally beginning to build, he came with a groan and then stopped.

We lay there for what seemed a long time, my fingers still pressuring my aching clit, only by then, having given up their will to manipulate. Like the kissing which preceded it all, this part I liked and I stroked his hair and listened to his breathing as it tapered back normalcy. 

He softened, as I'd wanted him in the beginning, only now my reason, temporarily misplaced, suddenly returned and warned that I had to get him out before the condom slipped off him and into me. Oh God!

He got the message when I gave him a get off me kind of shove. Well, it wasn't even a shove but he felt something, a stir maybe, and without relinquishing that indifferent look of his, he reluctantly backed out of my cunt.

Right away, my body curled into a chilled and near naked little ball as he wandered dispassionately off to the bathroom, to rid himself, I assumed, of the spent condom from his spent penis - which I would have attended to, had he asked. 

In his absence, confusion invaded me, an all-too-familiar feeling of knowing I'd gone too far with all of this. Who was he anyway? For that matter, who was I? In two seconds, I had two questions and no answers.

The bathroom door creaked open and he reappeared, his cock now glistening and free of its counterfeit shield. It dangled lazily as he walked toward the bed where he slid in next to me.

"I think I should go," I asserted quietly, abruptly jumping up and over him to the floor.

Suddenly I was all disarray, as like a scavenger, I grabbed at my clothes, the ones I could find anyway, and my thoughts clumsily tripped over themselves as images of Anya, my mother, and my own silly face in the bathroom mirror, collided with one another's backsides in an emotional traffic pileup on a foggy motorway, where I unexpectedly slammed on the brakes to avoid an innocent deer in the headlights. 

"So soon?" he asked, genuinely perplexed. "Why, love?"

"I just have to, that's all," I answered too curtly. "It's late and I should get home. Look at the time. It's gotten away from me completely. I'll walk to...how far is it to the station?"

Seeing my sudden agitation, he cautiously lifted himself onto his elbow.

"I'll drive you there. You needn't walk."

"That's very kind. Thank you. I'll be ready in five minutes. Could we leave then?"




Sex in Black & White - Story 06



"Whatever you like."

End - Sex in Black and White 



Sex in Black and White



Taking the stool from Kelvin, Tyler crossed behind me and set it down. "Back up so that the backs of your legs are touching the stool," he instructed me. "Now, Angela, I need you to climb up on the stool, back-to-back with Jared. And now... it gets tricky.

"This is a pretty physically demanding shot," he continued. "What I need now, Jared and Angela, is for you to grab each other's wrists." After a bit of maneuvering, we had each other's wrists in our grasps. "Now, Jared, I need you to SLOWLY bend over until you're almost at a ninety-degree angle to the ground. Angela, you're going to have to lean with him. Hold onto Jared's wrists, and stay on the stool as long as you can."

Okay, yeah. This was going to be interesting.

So, I started bending over. I could tell when Angela left the stool, because her grip on my wrists suddenly doubled -- or maybe even tripled. Finally, though, I reached the ninety-degree mark. "Excellent," Tyler said. "Angela, I need you to LET GO of Jared, spread your arms, and stay in that position as LONG AS YOU CAN."

Well, she did so, and judging from the approving comments Tyler was making, we had done it right. Unfortunately, he only got maybe half a dozen shots before Angela started sliding off and we had to lower her back to the ground, but he seemed to be happy. 

"Two more poses," Tyler told us. "Then we'll be done. First thing, Jared, I need you to sit Indian-style on the ground."

Simple enough, and with the concentration on that last pose, my penis had returned to its dormant state, so it wasn't sticking straight up in the air like a flagpole in my lap. "Alright, now Angela, I want you to kneel behind Jared. Sit on your left leg, but bend your right leg up next to Jared, so that your foot is on the ground, and wrap your arms around him... perfect."

Angela's breasts rubbed gently against my back as she got into position, and I could feel the blood start to flow back to my dick. Tyler really needed to get this show on the road, but apparently the pose wasn't QUITE done yet. "Alright, Jared, one more thing, I want you to reach up with your right arm, and wrap it around the back of Angela's neck."

Well, THAT was easier said than done, and it felt EXTRAORDINARLY awkward, but once again, it seemed to work for Tyler, who started shooting, this time getting probably ten shots off before my hardening dick intruded into the picture.

"Seems Jared wants to switch positions," Tyler said with a grin. "Fair enough. Angela, I want you to sit on the floor, not Indian-style, but with your legs bent to one side -- like you would if you were wearing a skirt."

"Easy enough," she said, moving into position.

"Alright, Jared," Tyler continued, "I want you in essentially the same pose that Angela was just in behind you, except I want your right hand on her stomach, and your left hand under her left breast. Now, Angela, can you reach your arm up around Jared's head like his was around yours?"

But the problem there was that Angela, at 5'4", has considerably shorter arms than I do, at 6'2". So, her arm simply wasn't long enough. "That's disappointing," Tyler grumped. "Can you stretch, maybe?"

"My arm just won't bend any further," Angela explained. "I'm not sure what we can do -"

"How about this," I interrupted, leaning my head down to bury my face in her neck.

"That might work," Angela replied, reaching her arm up. "Yes. Perfect!"

"Fantastic!" Tyler exclaimed, starting to shoot again. As he did, I exhaled onto Angela's neck, which caused her to gasp, her eyes closing and her head falling backward as she did so.

"Damn," we both heard Kelvin say. "Damn. That is HOT."

With that, we both opened our eyes, and realized that both Kelvin and Tyler were just staring at us. Both of us immediately turned bright red as we backed away from one another. "Don't be ashamed," Tyler said. "Kelvin's right. In fact, let's go take a look at the rough cuts, shall we?"

Angela and I both scrambled for our bathrobes, intentionally not making eye contact with one another, as Tyler moved to his computer to pull up the proofs. "Wow," I heard him mutter as he started looking at them. "I mean, the chemistry here... you two..."

As we approached the computer, Tyler turned around to face Angela and me. "Ummm..." He frowned. "Look, I know I said that you wouldn't, but... what would you two think... of doing some erotic shots?"

Angela and I slowly turned to look at each other, and then she turned back to Tyler. "HOW erotic?"

Tyler shrugged. "Foreplay... sex... orgasm?"

What happened next, I did not expect. Instead of Angela immediately objecting and departing from the studio, she turned to me and very softly said, "It's up to you."

I was stunned speechless. It took me a moment for my brain to catch up -- it had lost a certain amount of blood to another, now rock hard part of my anatomy -- and when it finally did, all I could think to ask was, "You're certain that nobody will be able to figure out that it's us in the pictures?"

**********

The first picture Tyler did was very simple, just me kissing Angela. And to be sure, since I had met Angela, I had more than once imagined kissing her -- just never in a context like this. But regardless, when my lips touched hers, it was like kissing all the angels in the heavenly realms at once. "Beautiful," Tyler said, as he shot the scene. "Now, Angela, I want the two of you to stay like that, but I want you to reach down and take hold of Jared."

Well, I understood what he meant, but either Angela didn't understand or she chose to misinterpret, as her right hand moved from my shoulder down to my thigh. "No, no, no," Tyler said, striding in -- and before I even realized what was going on, he had grabbed my dick. "Hold THIS," he said, a note of amusement in his voice, placing me into Angela's hand. And then, his hand was off my dick -

Shit. It barely even registered, because now Angela's petite, perfect hand was wrapped around my dick. She squeezed a little, which caused me to kiss her a little harder, which caused her to start stroking me a bit, which caused me to pull her closer to me -

"Next pose!"

God dammit.

"Alright, Angela, I want you to lay on your back. Bend your right knee up, and drape your left arm over your forehead. Jared is going to have his face in your crotch, as if he was licking you, and you need to make it look like that's EXACTLY what's going on."

Pssh. Who the hell needs faking?

Getting down on my hands and knees, I leaned in until my mouth was less than an inch away from Angela's pussy. I exhaled softly. "Ohhh," she whispered, shuddering a little bit. Well, that was just an invitation in my book, so I stuck out my tongue and ever-so-gently began teasing her clit with it.

"Oh, God," she whispered. "Oh, Jared, you better stop that... or not. No, don't... oh, GOD!"

And with that last exclamation, she went from a whisper to a scream. Clearly, Angela had been just as worked up as I had. And as she screamed, her body jerked upward, her hands taking hold of the back of my head and pressing my face into her pussy. Happy to oblige, I allowed my tongue to explore down along her labia and back up toward her clit, as she shuddered from the orgasm.

"Well, THAT certainly worked," I heard Tyler say as Angela weakly lay back down on the floor. "Let's try the opposite, shall we?"

Hmmm. This could prove to be dangerous.

"Jared, why don't you go ahead and stand up, and Angela, we need to make it look like you're sucking his dick. I apologize for the crude language, but fellatio just sounds like something you get at an Italian restaurant."

Okay, that was funny. I snorted with laughter as I stood, my dick waving proudly out in front of me. "You'll like this," Angela whispered, looking up at me as she got up on her knees.

And then, she took just a little bit of my dick into her mouth. And I'm talking just the tip, here. But she started moving her lips back and forth, and swirling her tongue around the head -- I was dimly aware of Tyler taking pictures, some from the sides, some from above, some from behind me, some from behind her -- all I knew was that if she kept that up, there was going to be a firehose... shit, how to distract myself...

FOUCAULT.

Mother fucking Michel Foucault. Son of a bitch with his panopticon. Utopian vision of a disciplinary society? What the hell WAS his damage, anyw-

"Alright, perfect!"

Well, how about that. Foucault saved the day. I didn't cum in Angela's mouth, and there was yet more to go!

"Now, it's time for the fun part," Tyler informed us cheerfully. "We're going to start with missionary, so, Angela... if you could lay down on the floor for me, and spread your legs apart?"

"Absolutely," she said, with a smile on her face.

Damn. She was really getting into this. Maybe I needed to be equally enthus-

JESUS CHRIST ON A CRACKER. I WAS ABOUT TO FUCK ANGELA RICHARDSON.

Somehow, despite everything we had been doing, despite what Tyler had told us, despite the exchange of oral sex there, it had not exactly dawned on me that I was going to actually be having sex with Angela. But now, here she was, lying down on the floor, opening herself up to me.

"Here's how it's going to work," Tyler was saying. "Jared, you and Angela are just, essentially, going to go at it. SLOWLY. But I'm not going to ask you to pose, I'm not going to ask you to stop mid-thrust or anything -- I'm just going to be continuously taking pictures. Sound good?"

Sound good? Like water to a dying man in the desert, sir.

So, I knelt down between Angela's legs, and leaned over, supporting myself in a push-up as I hovered over her. "You're sure you're okay with this?"

Angela smiled up at me. "I've been okay with this for over a year."

Well, fuck me.

Leaning down, I shifted my weight onto my right elbow, and reached down with my left hand. Slowly, I guided my dick until its head touched Angela's pussy, and then, pushing forward, I slowly, slowly slid inside her.

She shuddered as I slid inside, her eyes closing and her jaw falling open. On my first thrust in, I only got about halfway in before I had to start pulling back out, but with each succeeding thrust, I got a little further in, until I was finally sinking my dick all the way into Angela, my balls slapping against her ass with each thrust.

As I thrust in and out of her, I could feel little tiny spasms running through her vagina with each gasp of breath she took. I was dimly aware of Tyler taking photos from every possible angle, including one where he literally stuck the camera between us to take a picture of my dick at its furthest out angle -- only the head was still inside Angela when he took the picture.

"Okay," he said after about two minutes. "Jared, on your back -- Angela, I want you to ride him. Facing him."

But of course. Pulling out of Angela, I rolled over onto my back. "Very nice," she said with a smile, looking down at my dick, coated liberally in her juices. Moving up onto her knees, she straddled me, then reached down with her right hand and grabbed my dick, holding it upright as she slowly lowered herself onto me.

Now, perhaps it was the angle, perhaps it was the fact that I was doing less work, perhaps it was the fact that I was seeing Angela sitting on top of me, in all her glorious nakedness, my dick buried deep inside her, but as she started gently rocking back and forth, I was positive I was going to blow an epic load. In fact, as I lay there, hands balled into fists, I thought I was going to have to start thinking about Foucault again -

"Jared, don't just lay there!" Tyler admonished me. "Play with her boobs! Smack her ass! It'll all look GREAT on film!"

Oh. Well, yeah, I guess that'll give me something to do.

Lifting my right hand off the ground, I brought it up to her left boob. Taking the nipple between my thumb and forefinger, I gently pinched it and rolled it back and forth, drawing a violent gasp from Angela. "Oh my GOD!" she whispered. "Oh, do that some more!"

"Happy to oblige," I replied with a grin, continuing to do so.

"Oh, God," she moaned. "Oh, Jared. I want you to spank me!"

"Huh?"

Angela stopped her rocking, and looked down at me. "I need you to smack my ass, Jared. Can you do that for me?"

Without a word, I lifted both my hands, brought them around behind Angela, and smacked her on the ass. "YES!" she howled, as she began rocking again. "Do it again!"

So I did, but this time, I kept a grip on her butt cheeks -- one in each hand -- and used her perfect ass as a handhold, as I began controlling the tempo a bit, thrusting myself into her and moving her up and down.

"Suck on my tits," she gasped. "Lick my nipples!"

Taking my hands off of her ass, I put them on the ground and pushed myself up. Once my head was even with her chest, I wrapped my arms around Angela's back and pulled her to me, taking her left nipple into my mouth. "Oh, oh, OH!" she moaned as I did that. "Yes, Jared, oh God, oh yes, yes, yes YESSSSS!"

And with that, Angela came again.

As she came down from the orgasm, Tyler asked, "So, you up for another position?"

"Yeah," Angela said, a pleased note to her voice. "Long as I don't have to do much."

Tyler grinned. "Not at all. Just stand up and use your director's chair to support you."

As Angela stood up and positioned herself in front of the chair, Tyler looked at me. "Do I REALLY need to tell you what to do?" he asked.

"Not my first rodeo, Tyler," I replied with a laugh. "Just the first one that's on camera."

Standing up behind Angela, I moved my feet apart far enough to bring my dick down to the same level as her pussy. I bent my knees a little bit, and then, lining myself up, thrust forward, pushing into her once again.

I hadn't been going very long when I felt that familiar feeling bubbling up in my dick again, and this time, I was pretty sure that no amount of Foucault -- or even Air Force AFT 276 forms -- was going to stop me from cumming. "Uh, Tyler, I think we're about to be done here," I said.

"Okay," he responded. "Angela, quickly, lay down. Jared, go back to missionary, alright?"

Well, this was confusing. I just told him I'm about to cum, and he wants me to stick it back in her?

"Trust me," he said, seeing the confused look on my face. "As soon as you start to cum, I want you to pull out. Cum on her breasts, on her stomach. Try to not get it on her face, because then we cross a line into pornographic."

"Roger that," I replied, getting down on the ground above Angela. As I slid my dick back into her very well lubricated pussy, she just smiled, a look of bliss on her face. It only took about five thrusts before I felt it coming.

The first burst went inside of Angela -- there was no getting around that, not with as far gone as I was -- but I managed to pull out and shoot the rest of it on the underside of her breasts and across her stomach. As I finished, I fell backward to my knees, staring at the white streaks of cum across Angela's stomach.

"Perfect," Tyler said with a grin. "Seriously, you guys -- well done."

**********

Tyler's show didn't go to gallery until May. He had made sure that we saw every single picture he planned to use beforehand, and sure enough, he was true to his word -- not a single one in which either of us would really be recognizable.

Angela, Kelvin, and I drove down to San Francisco for the show. And the great thing was, Angela and I were able to walk around the gallery anonymously, nobody the wiser to the fact that we were the subjects of the many nudes and the extraordinarily explicit erotic photos.

The real attention-getter was Tyler's masterpiece. An eighty-inch wide by thirty-inch high frame dominated one wall. A gray matte was the backdrop for the photos on it, with a 24" x 36" landscape photo being the centerpiece, an 18" x 24" portrait photo flanking it on either side.

The left hand portrait was a rear-view of Angela riding me. In the photo, my hands were gripping her ass, and she was lifted up off of me just far enough for it to be very clear that my penis was inside of her. The right hand portrait was another rear-view, this time of me penetrating Angela from behind. From the angle from which Tyler had taken the photo, you could see part of Angela's face -- the rest was behind her left arm -- her magnificent breasts hanging down, and a very clear shot of my dick, buried balls deep inside of Angela.

The center photo, however -- at first blush, it seemed very simple. It was a side-view of us, missionary. I was on an out-thrust, as you could see probably about half of my penis withdrawn from Angela. It must have been a particularly enjoyable moment for her, too, as her back was arched, breasts thrust into the air. Her neck was arched backward, her mouth open, the rest of her face obscured.

You couldn't really see my face, except for my right eye -- it was open, and it had caught the light perfectly. My eye looked like it was on fire, and if you looked into my eye, you could clearly see the lust that had been raging through my body just at that moment.

Angela and I must have stood in front of that collage for ten minutes, mesmerized by what we saw. Finally, the spell was broken by a voice behind us. "It's really something, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is," Angela murmured, without even turning around. Grabbing my hand, she beat a hasty retreat from the gallery, fishing her car keys out with her free hand as we moved into the parking lot.

"Look," she said breathlessly as we reached her 4Runner. "I don't know why we haven't had a repeat performance, but it's been four months, and I need you to fuck me again, RIGHT NOW."

She turned to me, a smile and a blush on her face as she pulled open the back door. "Sound good?"

I grinned. "Sounds to me like an offer I can't refuse."